Page 28
“Lass, I’m no’ betrothed. I never have been.”
Her ridiculous heart leaped at his quiet pronouncement.
Stupid, imprudent, rash hope sprang anew.
These emotional ups and downs were wreaking havoc on her.
“I don’t understand,” Rayne said, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes. What game did he play? “I quite clearly heard her grace offer you felicitations and apologize for revealing your betrothal before an official announcement had been made.”
So had everyone else at the table, if the immediate buzz that had broken out was any indication.
It was Fletcher’s turn to shake his head, his steady, unrepentant gaze holding hers captive. She was snared, unable to look away, like a mouse in a trap. “Nae, she’d been misinformed.”
Misinformed?
A betrothal wasn’t something trite or inconsequential that someone might be mistaken about. For instance, whether Lady Jersey took milk with her tea, or the sun had shone sixteen days last month, or Prinny’s favorite color was pink.
Rayne had heard that last triviality somewhere, not that the Prince Regent’s favorite color mattered to her in the least.
Fletcher’s engagement did matter, however.
Either one was betrothed, or one was not.
Which was it?
Framed in the arbor’s opening, with the profusion of roses surrounding him and butterflies flitting about behind him, he looked like a prince from one of Nicolette’s naughty romantic novels.
From the first moment—all right, mayhap not the first moment—Rayne had believed Fletcher unlike other men. Had perhaps unfairly plopped him on a pedestal—a very short pedestal it turned out—and attributed characteristics to him and expectations of him that were impractical.
Gesturing to the bench, he said, “Why dinna ye sit down, and I’ll explain.”
Because Rayne so wanted to believe him—and she’d realized when it came to Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade, she was malleable as fresh bread dough—she obediently sank onto the unyielding stone bench. After setting aside her sketching supplies and arranging her simple sea-foam green skirts, she primly folded her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles.
With a start, she realized she was holding her breath. Gradually releasing the pent-up air, she canted her head. “What is it you wish to say, Your Grace? Be quick about it, please. As I’ve told you before, I cannot risk ruination.”
In truth, ruination might get her sent packing back to Fittledale Park. Honestly, that didn’t seem such a horrid punishment.
Yes, but any chance you’d ever have at a respectable match and having children would be forever destroyed.
Why wasn’t that true for unmarried men too?
Unfair, her heart cried.
Men were praised and touted as conquerors for their sexual triumphs, while unmarried women were disgraced for all time for simply being found alone with a man. They became pariahs, someone to be shuffled off to a country estate or a discreet cottage.
Debutantes were expected to remain untouched and virginal while young bucks could rut like stags or bulls without consequence.
Pausing in her rueful ruminations, Rayne scrunched her nose.
Did she want a match?
Truthfully, she wasn’t certain.
Her past still held her partially imprisoned and made contemplating a future difficult. Nevertheless, she adored babies—their sweet smell and so, so soft skin—and was positive that she wanted children. Furthermore, she was fully prepared to perform her wifely duties with her husband to acquire said children, no matter how distasteful the intimacy may be.
Rayne slid Fletcher a sideways glance.
Intimacy with him wouldn’t be a chore at all. She was positive about that as well. A flush of mortification engulfed her, and she waved her hand before her face.
