Page 45

“Lèannan, I would never deliberately hurt ye. Ye are too precious to me.”

And thunk, there dropped another piece of her already fractured heart at his feet. Yes, she was an utter and complete nitwit.

Fletcher drew her closer, not scandalously so, but slightly more than was entirely proper. His essence surrounded her, comforting and familiar. He put his mouth near her ear.

“I sent my mother away yesterday. To Aberdeen. She’ll never have the opportunity to cause ye pain again.”

What?

Stumbling, Rayne glanced upward. He easily steadied her and made a skillful turn. For a man his size, he possessed grace and agility.

“Why? Because of what she said to me?” She puzzled her brow. “Fletcher, she’s your mother. She only wants what is best for you.”

The words nearly strangled Rayne, but she’d vowed to be kind. Speaking charitably about the Duchess of Kincade so soon after her horrid behavior toward Rayne tested her mettle, however.

“Nae, she’s only ever cared about herself.” His words came low and hoarse. As if saying them aloud caused him pain.

He spun her in a circle, and she followed his lead. Never had dancing come so easily. Typically, she was a nervous wreck and spent every moment concentrating on not casting up her accounts on her partner’s glossy shoes.

Roving her gaze over his face, she tried to memorize each dear contour and angle. His earlier vow to remain in London now seemed impossible with him living next door. She’d return to Fittledale Park rather than torment herself with the knowledge he was just over the garden wall, and yet he might as well be across the ocean.

Tears stung behind her eyelids, and she lowered her lashes lest he see.

“Rayne?”

God, how she adored his brogue and the melodious way her name flowed off his tongue.

She wouldn’t look up. Couldn’t look into his eyes. He’d see her love for him, and she didn’t think she could bear his pity.

“Rayne. Look at me.”

She shook her head. “No.”

It wasn’t until the cool breeze caressed her bare shoulders that she realized he’d whisked them onto the terrace. She gazed about, half-stunned, but relieved to see several other people meandering along the veranda. At least her reputation would remain intact.

Not so, her heart.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, attempting to tug her hand from his.

“Tryin’ to apologize and beg yer forgiveness.”

Sighing, Rayne looked past his broad shoulder into the lantern-lit garden. “What’s there to forgive, Fletcher? I willingly kissed you. You never made any promises.” Somehow, she fashioned a genuine smile. “I’m not angry. Truly, I understand. I’m English and a commoner, to boot.”

That didn’t mean, however, that she had to like it. But she did understand.

“Ye dinna understand anythin’, and I shall explain all later. But for now, all ye need to ken is I love ye, lass. Love ye so much, I canna see any future without ye in it. I want to marry ye, Rayne. If ye’ll have me.”

Blistering tears sprang to her eyes once more, and the veriest morsel of hope took wing, flitting about her chest like a tiny insect. “But I’m English. Your mother said—”

“I dinna want to marry an Englishwoman like her.”

At some point, they’d stopped dancing, and he’d maneuvered them into a secluded corner.

“She abandoned my father and her three children eighteen years ago. Her only interest in me, my brother, and my sister is what she can gain from a relationship with us. I could no’ join myself to a woman like that for a lifetime. That is why I dinna want to marry a cold English aristocrat.”

“Oh.”

It made perfect sense.