Page 24

17 Bedford Square

Two days later in the late afternoon

Rayne ran her fingers through the cool water as she slowly wandered around the fountain. Where she wished to be—anywhere but here—and where she actually was—London—were two vastly different things. She might’ve gone shopping with Everleigh and Sarah, Griffin’s ward, and to Gunter’s afterward, but neither outing had appealed overly much.

Nothing had appealed to her since overhearing the Duchess of Dandridge congratulate Fletcher on his betrothal. Rayne didn’t need one guess, much less three, to know who the fortunate lady was.

A vision of sun-kissed hair, a flawless peach complexion, and narrowed, unkind blue eyes intruded. Snobbish, conceited, vile tempered, black-hearted Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby.

In Lady Sheldon-Furnsby’s case, beauty was truly only skin deep. From Rayne’s few interactions, she’d deduced her ladyship was foul to her black-hearted core. All the pretty outward wrapping couldn’t disguise her ugly soul.

Not only was Rayne dismayed that Fletcher hadn’t been forthcoming with her about his relationship with Lady Sheldon-Furnsby, but she was also disappointed in his choice of a wife. She hadn’t believed him so shallow as to choose a vain, shallow, self-centered termagant like Lady Sheldon-Furnsby.

But, then again, Rayne shouldn’t have been surprised. Lady Sheldon-Furnsby possessed everything that High Society valued in a duchess: beauty, breeding, and wealth. Throw in her position and powerful connections and one had a veritable treasure trove of attributes. None of which made her a decent person.

Regardless, Fletcher had chosen her to become his duchess.

Rayne couldn’t envision the persnickety beauty leaving London’s luxuries and entertainment behind for Scotland. Not that there was anything wrong with Scotland. It wasn’t as if the land north of England was occupied by uncivilized barbarians. Though she’d only ever seen paintings, Rayne thought the raw beauty of the country immensely appealing.

Neither could she see Fletcher remaining in London indefinitely. Unlike the fops and dandies that often paraded around the city, he was too rugged and untamed. Too powerfully built and muscled to ever pass for an English peer. Not, she was quite certain, that he had any wish to.

Besides, she rather suspected he not only preferred but needed the less rigorous strictures Scotland provided a man like him. Either Lady Sheldon-Furnsby or Fletcher was going to be utterly miserable.

Rayne shook her head.

No, eventually, both would be unhappy. It couldn’t be helped. If one married someone who wasn’t content unless their spouse acquiesced to their every want and whim, stifling their own desires and needs, then bitterness and resentment would inevitably arise. Those dark sentiments would eventually smother any surviving joy and happiness.

Perhaps neither Fletcher nor his betrothed cared about any of that. There were those who entered into arranged unions who didn’t give a fig.

Rayne very much cared about such things.

It was also possible, she supposed, theirs was a marriage of convenience, and they’d keep separate residences. That wasn’t uncommon among aristocrats. This only further proved Rayne didn’t know Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade at all.

But then, how could she have in under a week’s acquaintance?

For certain, she’d naively read too much into their unexpected encounter in his gardens and at Hyde Park too.

More fool she.

At least she’d learned of his perfidy early on. Before her heart had become fully engaged. There was that blessing to be grateful for.

Rayne blamed her ignorance on her inexperience. Until meeting Fletcher, she’d been content without romantic male attention. In point of fact, prior to him, any man who’d taken a more than casual interest in her had straight-up terrified her.

Sighing, she removed a gray feather with black markings from the fountain’s uppermost level. In that insignificant gesture, she’d save Fitzroy a degree of frustration. This feather belonged to an Eurasian dove.

Glancing upward, she frowned at the stern disapproval permanently etched upon Apollo’s marble features. Giving in to a childish whim and her discontented mood, she stuck her tongue out at the statue.

Why had the artist cast the god in such a dark temperament?

Who wanted to be forever memorialized as a grump?

Circling the fountain again, Rayne passed the bench where she’d abandoned her sketching. Even that pleasurable pastime hadn’t been able to hold her attention because, despite her determination otherwise, her mind wandered to that day she’d intended to draw the wisteria.

And that, of course, led to more ruminations about Fletcher.

She’d lost track of how many times she’d gone around and around the small courtyard.

Her dratted musings kept drifting to him.