“It looked like a bit more than an accident,” Lord Fitzwell said, pulling at his lapels, a deep frown on his face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Rafe maneuvered himself to his feet and helped Daphne up as well. She continued to laugh, which was not helping things. Not in the least.
Daphne turned and bent over, apparently searching for something in the hedge. “I’ve lost my reticule,” she said. She clearly wasn’t comprehending the import of her would-be groom’s presence, nor his insinuations.
“Daphne, stop,” Rafe said.
Daphne swung around, her giggling ended, a surprised look on her face.
Lord Fitzwell raised his brows in total effrontery. “You’re calling her by her Christian name?”
Rafe straightened to his full height and assumed his rigid army-captain stance. “I assure you, Lord Fitzwell, absolutely nothing untoward happened here tonight between Lady Daphne and myself.”
Fitzwell turned to Daphne. “Lady Daphne, is this true?”
Daphne raised her nose in the air. “Lady Daphne, is this true?” she echoed, and then burst out laughing again.
“Lady Daphne, please,” Lord Fitzwell said. “Why, I, if I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you were… intoxicated.”
“There’s no need to wonder. I am intoxicated,” Daphne said, still giggling. “I’m ever so intoxicated and at present I’m wondering why I haven’t been intoxicated more often.”
“No. No,” Rafe said. “She’s not intoxicated. She’s just—”
“I am intoxicated!” Daphne insisted, stamping her foot.
Rafe groaned.
She brushed a bit of grass off her sleeve. “I am quite pleasantly intoxicated. And I have one question for you, Lord Fitzwell.”
“Daphne, don’t,” Rafe warned.
“I’ll thank you to stop using Lady Daphne’s Christian name,” Fitzwell added.
Rafe gave the baron a condemning glare.
“I have one question for you,” Daphne repeated, pointing a finger high in the air.
“What’s that?” Lord Fitzwell said, still tugging on his lapels.
“What does your backside look like?”
Lord Fitzwell’s face contorted into a look of such utter confusion and horror that Rafe wondered if his nose would begin spontaneously bleeding again.
“Pardon me?” Lord Fitzwell asked. His valet would never get that coat right again after all the tugging the baron was subjecting it to tonight.
“I asked what your backside looks like. Please turn around. I’d like to see it, to compare.”
“Lady Daphne, you’re not well. Allow me to escort you back to the house.” Rafe grabbed her elbow. If she said another word there would not onlynotbe an engagement, but Daphne’s reputation might be shredded past all repair.
“I am perfectly fine,” Daphne said, struggling to pull herself from Rafe’s grasp. “I would like another glass of champagne, actually.”
“You cannot possibly mean that,” Fitzwell said.
“Why not?” Daphne asked, blinking at Lord Fitzwell. “Would you like to hear a song?”
Rafe smothered his smile.
Lord Fitzwell tugged at his cravat this time. No doubt the man was sweating. So was Rafe. “I came out here to— Well, I’ll just say it. I came from your brother’s study, where we had a talk, came to an understanding. He provided his blessing in my asking for your hand. Your cousin told me I might find you here.”
