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Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade.
Scoundrel? Rapscallion? Rake? Womanizer?
The sort of man who flirted with one woman even as he intended to ask another to wed him?
She wouldn’t have believed it of him, but the truth was self-evident. An unladylike snort escaped her. She didn’t care. Damn him. Even knowing his true character and admitting she’d escaped entanglement with a cad, Rayne couldn’t deny he’d enchanted her.
Still did, truth be told.
And that makes you a nincompoop, Rayne Wellbrook.
It did, indeed.
From that very first devastating smile in Fletcher’s garden, he’d caught her in his silky, seductive web. Obviously, the enchantment was one-sided.
He hadn’t even bid her farewell two nights ago.
Citing an important matter that needed his immediate attention, Fletcher had taken his leave directly after dessert. For the life of her, Rayne couldn’t conceive what had arisen during the meal that required his attention.
Perchance he’d only just remembered something urgent.
Yes, that he was betrothed.
Pressing her lips into a hard line, she kicked at an errant pebble. It tumbled across the pavers, coming to rest beneath one of the benches.
Perhaps Fletcher was a coward after all and had wanted nothing more than to escape her accusatory glances.
Had she sent him accusatory glances?
If so, they’d been unintentional. Pray to God no one else had noticed.
In point of fact, Rayne had endeavored not to look at him anymore after the Duchess of Dandridge’s inadvertent announcement. But as conversations are wont to do, a perfectly timed lull enabled everyone sitting near Fletcher, and she suspected along the entire lengths of both sides of the table, to hear her grace’s apology.
Rayne’s wounded heart gave a queer flip that she felt clear to her belly.
Remorse? Hurt?
Regret for what might’ve been?
She honestly didn’t know.
Filling her lungs, she held her breath and closed her eyes. Then, slowly counting to ten, she released the air. She’d learned that calming behavior years ago and rarely had to call upon it anymore.
Why, then, couldn’t she shake this melancholy?
For pity’s sake, Fletcher owed her nothing. Nothing.
They both knew it.
Rayne had conceded that fact readily. If she hadn’t been sneaking onto the property next door, they would never have had that clandestine meeting. A romantic at heart, she’d foolishly hoped the encounter and his rakish wink in Hyde Park had meant more.
It hadn’t.
Not to a practiced rogue such as he, it hadn’t, in any event.
A graceful clouded yellow butterfly flitted by a few feet over Rayne’s head, catching her attention.
Remembering the vow she’d made the day she’d encountered Fletcher to sketch the next clouded yellow she saw, she snatched up her abandoned art supplies and trotted after the winged beauty as it gracefully flitted to and fro. Instead of stopping to drink from the scabious as she’d anticipated it would, the butterfly continued onward toward the rose-covered arbor.
