The edge of Fielding’s mouth drew upward into a smirk. “And you look remarkably better than when I last saw you.”
Recognizing the barb, Raphe prepared to respond with an equally veiled insult when the dowager duchess said, “Sounds intriguing. Would you care to elaborate?”
The smirk lit Fielding’s eyes. Raphe felt his jaw tighten. He drew his fingers into fists. “I met Huntley when he first arrived,” Fielding explained. “Lady Gabriella and I were returning from a lovely drive in the park and, as you know, her house is right next door to Huntley’s.”
“Oh, yes. So it is,” Lord Hawthorne said.
“Frankly, I had no idea who he was at the time,” Fielding continued. “So I daresay I made quite a fool of myself when I went to introduce myself.”
“But you are the very model of propriety, my lord,” Lady Hawthorne said. “You could never say anything inappropriate.”
“Alas, I fear that isn’t true,” Fielding told her with a highly exaggerated tone of regret that rankled Raphe to the bone. “For indeed, I made the unforgiveable error of presuming that he was a servant.”
Unified gasps and wide-eyed disbelief followed. The effect drew other guests closer—the promise of scandal and gossip surely too great to be ignored.
Raphe bristled. “An understandable mistake,” he told his host sharply, “under the circumstances.”
“But why on earth would you presume such a thing?” someone asked from behind Raphe.
Fielding shrugged, a casual gesture that made Raphe feel like punching him. “His clothes were—simple, unsophisticated and cheap.” Murmurs began weaving their way through the crowd. “And when he spoke—well”—he gave Raphe a deliberate once-over, accompanied by a look of pity—“suffice it to say that I would never have guessed you attended Eton, Your Grace.”
Silence fell like heavy flakes of plump snow, filling the room until it threatened to bury them all. “Perhaps because I didn’t,” Raphe told him. He spoke slowly, paying great attention to his choice of words and pronunciation. “But . . .” he added, unwilling to let the unpleasant man get away with his insult, “in spite of your fine education, I still outrank you, Lord Fielding.” He allowed a deliberate smile. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”
A flood of crimson colored Fielding’s cheeks like an ugly rash. He glared at Raphe. “You . . . you . . .” he sputtered while his chest pumped up and down with ever-increasing fury. The man looked just about ready to explode.
“Yes?” Raphe inquired, unable to hide the fact that he was enjoying this.
“Cad.”
Raphe stared at him. Feeling his lips begin to tremble, he pressed them together and did his damnedest not to laugh, then told his adversary frankly, “I’ve received many insults over the years, all of them far worse than that. So if you’re looking to offend me, you’ll have to do better. Much better.” Leaning closer, he added, “Put that Eton brain of yours to good use, man.”
“Simpleton,” Fielding told him.
Raphe winced, embarrassed for the fellow. “Sorry, Fielding, but I’m not impressed.”
Fielding’s mouth dropped open.
“I suggest you leave it alone,” Hawthorne interjected while everyone else nodded.
“I’m not done,” Fielding protested. “Can’t you see that he doesn’t belong here?”
“What I see,” Coventry, said, “is a man handing you a spade and asking you to dig.”
Raphe smirked. He liked that analogy. And he quite liked Hawthorne and Coventry too for backing him up. Perhaps the ton wasn’t all bad. Lady Gabriella certainly wasn’t. And with that thought came the awful reminder that she was supposed to marry the arrogant earl with whom he was presently sparring. The idea was so unjust it made Raphe’s hands go all clammy. His cravat felt suddenly tighter—less comfortable, if such a thing were possible. He narrowed his gaze on Fielding, deciding he was very similar to Guthrie in his abuse of power. If only there were a way to save the world from men like them.
“The Earl and Countess of Warwick,” a servant announced, dislodging his thoughts. “And their daughter, Lady Gabriella.”
Raphe felt his pulse rise in response to her name. Turning, he sought her with his eyes, a sigh of pleasure cascading through him the moment he saw her. She was wearing a pale blue gown trimmed with silver, displaying a figure that ought to bring every mortal man to his knees. Raphe’s throat went dry. He shouldn’t want her, but by God . . .
“I suggest you look elsewhere,” a tight voice murmured in Raphe’s ear. Fielding. “She is not for the likes of you.”
“Would you care to bet on that?” Raphe asked, unable to let the comment go.
Fielding scoffed. “I think not.”
And then the earl brushed his way past him, crossing the room with the elegance of a panther until he stood before the woman who’d somehow—inexplicably—begun occupying far too much of Raphe’s mind.
He watched the pair for a moment; the way Fielding bowed and smiled . . . Lady Gabriella’s timid response. It looked so rehearsed and so frustratingly false. They were like actors in a bad play, each trying to play the part that was expected of them rather than one that conveyed any ounce of true emotion. His pulse returned to normal, their interaction reassuring him that Fielding and Lady Gabriella shared a weaker connection with each other than he did with her. It seemed unlikely that they’d even kissed, though Raphe could not for the life of him comprehend Fielding’s restraint.
