Page 19
17 Bedford Square
That evening
Cutting into the perfectly cooked pancetta partridge in wine sauce, Fletcher veered a furtive glance toward Rayne, who was seated across and down two chairs from him. The seating arrangement made it impossible to speak with her and still observe dining propriety.
More inconvenient society rules.
Never speak across the table.
They did so at Levensyde House—at every meal, in point of fact. But then again, the Scots had never been as stodgy and formal as the English.
Which, he reluctantly admitted, was a good thing since he shouldn’t indulge his wayward fascination with the vixen. Nothing could come of such a fixation. He wasn’t such an unconscionable cad as to lead Rayne to believe there could be something between them, only to crush her hopes, as he surely must.
After all, he knew first hand that fragile English ladies and Scotland’s demanding climate and pragmatic people did not blend well.
Oil and water.
Sawdust and ink.
Milk and tea.
What?
Nae, no’ damned milk and tea.
Yer aff yer bloody heid.
Rayne could not be his. He’d never subject her or himself to such misery.
Toward that end, Fletcher had avoided her and even forbid himself to venture into his newly tidied gardens for fear he’d find himself peering over the wall like a moon-eyed swain.
The area near the folly remained more naturalized, but he refused to admit he’d ordered it kept so for her. For if he admitted that—even if only to himself—then he’d have to acknowledge he felt something more than casual appreciation for the beautiful young woman.
Why then had he counted it his great good fortune that when he was on his way to Rotten Row with Asherford and San Sebastian earlier today, they’d come upon the women? More on point, why had Fletcher been inordinately pleased when Asherford had assumed he’d already been introduced to Rayne?
Because he knew full well that Asherford’s presumption saved him from having to ask for the introduction as he’d stupidly told her he would do. Which was to say, he’d allowed himself an indulgence he could not afford. Which was to say, he could not pursue his burgeoning interest, even if Rayne Wellbrook was the most provocative, enticing, captivating, enthralling woman he’d met in…well, ever.
It is her damn enticing perfume.
Gardenia and carnation.
That was what had compelled him to vow he’d arrange an introduction. The scent had muddled his reasoning.
And that is a colossal load of horse shite.
With her sable, bronze-and-gold-tinted hair caught up in an intricate design, a few glossy curls left to tease her ears, and wearing a mazarine blue satin gown accented with ivory lace and black velvet, Rayne was quite simply exquisite.
A single sapphire dangled from a black velvet ribbon tied at her neck. The hollow of her creamy throat tenderly nestled the sparkling gem. He was jealous as hell of the jewel.
Sapphire and pearl earrings hung from her dainty earlobes and swayed as she spoke or nodded. Each movement of the earbobs drew his attention to that delectable, perfumed juncture just below her ear that he’d almost tasted that day in his gardens.
Four times so far during the meal—but who was counting?—Fletcher caught Rayne studying him from beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes. However, upon each occurrence, she swiftly dropped her gaze to her plate. Not before adorable color had tinted her cheeks, causing the few equally adorable freckles to stand out.
His masculine pride swelled with primal satisfaction each time. He mercilessly deflated it with sordid memories of his mother’s cold, cruel behavior and her venomous words.
If ever there were a perfect means to shrivel a partial cockstand—other than a good dousing in icy loch water—thoughts of his mother swiftly, succinctly, and thoroughly accomplished the task.
Regardless, Fletcher had slid so many brief, what he mistakenly believed were secretive, glances in Rayne’s direction that Asherford had raised his noble brow and quirked his mouth up on one side into a mocking grin no less than five—nae, there he goes again—make that six times.
