He was staying here? Every night? Worry assailed her, mingling with the unwanted desire. Not fear about his presence, but rather for what it would mean to her in terms of the looming secret she had revealed.
“Have you told Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia about what happened at my last situation?” she asked, trying to tamp down her body’s frantic response.
He moved soundlessly, with the same innate grace she had noted before. Catlike and elegant and yet delightfully masculine all at once.
“Even if I were to tell Jasper and his wife that bastard Gregson attempted to force himself on you, they would find fault with that cowardly scoundrel, where it belongs,” he said, his countenance serious, his gaze searching. “Surely you know that?”
“I forged my letter of character to gain this position,” she said. “When I left Lord Landsdowne’s home, I knew I would have to forfeit that, but I was also desperate.”
“You did what you needed to do.” Rafe removed the remainder of the distance between them, plucking the taper from her fingers before moving away to light a brace of candles and a small lamp.
More light flooded her room, and she was at once grateful for it and dismayed.
Grateful because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. Dismayed because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. And all the rest of him, too.
He was more handsome than she had recalled, if at all possible. Surely it was impossible, was it not? Certainly implausible. Yet, he was. She found herself moving toward him, seeking his warmth. Seeking his presence.
“I did what I had to do, yes, but I lied,” she pointed out. “I lied to you. I lied to them. All you need to do is tell them my letter of character was forged, and they will ask me to leave without reference.”
She was giving voice to her fears. Quite foolishly. And yet, the words had left her in a mad rush. When had Rafe Sutton become her confidante?
“I won’t tell them, Miss Wren.” Gently and slowly, as if he feared she were a wild creature who might start and flee, he reached out, running his forefinger beneath her jaw. The caress was so tender and fleeting, she would have believed she had imagined it if not for the tingling warmth where his bare skin had touched hers. “Will you tell me your name?”
“Persephone,” she said, the only part of her that was not a lie. The only part of her that was truly hers to give him.
When she had escaped Cousin Bartholomew, she had known she would need to change her surname to render it more difficult to find her. It was a matter of course that he would come looking. He would not wish for his fortune to flee him. But she had kept her given name, not wanting to lose herself entirely.
She was still Persephone. She was merely no longer Lady Persephone Calcot.
“Persephone,” Rafe repeated, a small grin quirking his lips, his dimples appearing. “Ah, how interesting.”
“Interesting?” She was trying not to allow herself to be charmed by him and failing miserably.
She ought to tell him to leave her room instead of admiring the glint of the low light in his blond curls, and yet she could not. There was the faintest golden stubble of whiskers on his jaw that she found utterly mesmerizing.
“Hades and Persephone. I know the tale,” he said, his smile fading and taking with it those maddening grooves that served to enhance his appeal. “Hades stole Persephone away to the underworld.”
He ran his hand along the well-defined angle she had been admiring, and for a brief, mad moment, she wondered what it would feel like, what would happen if she were to replace his hand with hers.
Then, she banished the dangerous thought from her mind.
You’re being foolish, Persephone. This man is not for you.
“I am afraid I fail to see what is interesting about the story,” she forced herself to say. “It seems rather unbelievable, if you ask me. He fell in love with her after seeing her picking flowers? How trite.”
Rafe raised a brow. “I reckon that for the right woman, a man might
lose his heart and his head easily. He may even forgive a lady for slipping laudanum into his brandy.”
A strange warmth invaded her. What was he suggesting? Surely not that he had lost either his head or his heart to her. That was impossible. He scarcely even knew her. And furthermore, she was still lying to him, even now. Her every waking moment was one falsehood after the next, perpetuated over and over, without end.
The guilt returned, heavy as a stone. “Perhaps you should not have forgiven me, Mr. Sutton.”
“I’m a forgiving chap when forgiveness is due.” His jaw clenched. “Not when it ain’t. You can be sure Lord Gregson won’t be trying to force himself on any other ladies any time soon. I’ve made certain of that.”
Lord Gregson.
The mentioning of him had her entire body stiffening as if she had been struck. Slowly, Rafe’s words permeated the intensity of her reaction.