Page 29

“Goodness, it’s awfully warm. How can you bear the heat with that coat?”

He lifted one shoulder an crooked a smile. “I spent time in the tropics. This heat doesn’t begin to compare to those stifling temperatures and humidity.”

That diverted her attention. “Did you truly?”

“Aye. As a privateer.” He flicked a long finger at his earring, barely visible through his thick hair hanging to his shoulders. “That’s when I acquired this.”

“How fascinating.” It truly was. How did a duke become a privateer? Or was it the other way around? “I’d love to hear about your travels and how you came to have your earring.”

Stop. Don’t encourage him. You shouldn’t even be having this little tête-à-tête.

Ah, yes.

Scandal and disgrace awaited her if they were caught. Not to mention, Griffin would likely feel obliged to call Fletcher out. Why did men always think violence was the answer to disagreements? If women ran the world, Rayne was convinced there’d be far fewer wars.

She peered anxiously out the arbor’s opening. It wasn’t probable that anyone would come upon them, but it wasn’t impossible either.

Fletcher settled his large form beside hers, his granite-hard thigh brushing her gown just inches from her leg. This near, his clean, manly scent wafted to her.

Slightly spicy. Cloves?

She filled her lungs.

And a woodsy aroma.

Pine? Eucalyptus? Juniper?

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she faced him. And waited.

He’d sought her out after all.

Chin tucked to his chest, Fletcher appeared deep in reflection. He scratched beneath his lower lip with his thumbnail. At long last, he sighed and removed his hat. Laying it atop his knee, he rested his head against the arbor and gazed upward.

Weariness radiated from him, and Rayne wanted to brush back the errant lock of hair that had tumbled over his forehead when he’d scooped his hat off.

Hands clasped tightly to prevent any such unwise action, she continued to wait.

Without looking at her, he said, “The Duchess of Dandridge was purposely misinformed. Lady St. Lavelle spoke out of turn when she declared her daughter and I were to wed. I havena offered for Lady Sheldon-Furnsby’s hand, nor do I intend to. Ever.”

Resolution and conviction thickened his brogue and deepened the timbre of his voice.

Angling his head, he caught Rayne’s eye, and a tender smile bent his mouth.

She forbade her heart to skip about excitedly.

This was a serious business.

Furrowing her forehead, she put a finger to her cheek. The tale was so farfetched and fanciful that she was hard-pressed to believe him. But what motivation had he to lie to her about such a thing? Denying a betrothal was scandalous behavior. His good name would have a black mark upon it. Well, mayhap a slight smudge. Not that most of Society would care. Dukes could do no wrong.

“Are you suggesting she made the whole tale up?” Rayne spread her hands wide, bumping his shoulder. “Beg your pardon,” she mumbled, returning her hands to her lap.

A short grunt was Fletcher’s only response.

She wasn’t finished, however, and needed to be perfectly clear on the matter.

“Am I to believe her ladyship fabricated that nonsensical tripe and spread it about as if it were true? That was dreadfully bold and risky. Did she hope to entrap you?”

“Aye. Lady St. Lavelle and my mother are old friends. The two put their conniving’ heads together and hatched the scheme.”