Nothing from Ventnor. Nothing about Thea.
He calculated and recalculated the days. Surely Helen and Beau Russell were married by now. Surely word had reached London. Surely a scathing letter from Ventnor should have arrived.
But nothing.
He felt light-headed with relief. It wasn’t over yet. They had at least one more day. He should not waste it.
Unless—
“What about the countess?” he demanded.
“She received a letter too.”
“And?”
The footman searched the room for the right answer. “And…her ladyship has not yet read it as she has not returned from her walk.”
Rafe stopped tormenting the man and went outside. He strode down the lawn, seeking Thea and not seeing her, and what would he do if he did? Take up sorcery after all so he could put a spell on his estate to freeze time? They said desire made men into fools and he was living proof. If news from the outside world never came, and she never confessed, and he never confessed, and she never left, and he never had to decide—
Decide what, exactly?
He stood by the lake and let the water lap at the toes of his boots. A dragonfly skipped over the surface; a gentle breeze gathered the water into ripples that glinted in the sunlight; a bird issued a lazy call. An idyllic summer’s day. Rafe stood in this idyll and ached. Ached with indecision and desire and despair. Well, a vigorous swim in cold water could fix one of those, at least. He stripped down to his drawers, plunged into the cool water, and swam.
He swam and swam, as he did every day, his legs kicking behind him, his arms cycling over his head. Yet every gulp of air and kick of his legs, every slap of his hands slicing the water, brought a thought of Thea. Memories, questions, images of Thea in a future that could not be. Thea, who was lying to him. Thea, who longed for balls and society and London. Thea, whose vitality made him yearn to be a different man.
He swam, harder, faster, further, flipping around and doing it again and again. Every muscle in his body worked to keep him moving, until it became difficult to catch his breath. Drowning seemed excessive, so when he neared the bank once more, he stopped and sucked in air.
He dug his toes into the mud, the water lapping at his chest, his drawers clinging uncomfortably to his thighs. Gripping his wet hair, Rafe let out a bellow of frustration and turned.
There she was.
Thea sat on a flat rock hanging over the water’s edge. The skirts of her blue walking dress were bunched around her knees, displaying a hint of white undergarments, and her bare calves and feet dangled in the water, intriguing pale shapes under the surface.
Her ankles. Those famously, fabulously fascinating ankles.
The swim had stolen all his thoughts, but Rafe did not need to think. Of its own will, his body turned, and he pushed through the water toward her.
In her own defense, Thea had removed her shoes and stockings and sat on the rock before she’d noticed Rafe swimming.
She had intended to pack first thing, but no sooner had she opened her empty trunk than she developed the notion of saying her farewells to Brinkley End. After all, she reasoned, a delay of a couple of hours would not matter, in the grand scheme of things. She was in no rush to get to London, given that her pamphlets would not be ready for days.
And it was such a warm day, and her feet were hot and tired, and it wouldn’t matter if she sat for a while with her bare feet in the water.
But when she’d seen him swimming back and forth in that absurdly vigorous manner, she found she could not move.
Neither could she move when he came to a stop. The water lapped at his skin, halfway up his naked, heaving chest. She barely had time to marvel at the breadth of his shoulders, when he lifted his arms to wipe his face, revealing the shape of his ribcage, and the muscles shifting under his skin, and the jagged scars marking his shoulders and ribs. Then he gripped his hair and roared at the sky like a beast, and she wondered fancifully if he was indeed some magical, mythical beast. Until he turned and looked right in her eyes, and she knew, without a doubt, that he was all man.
A man with the intent gaze of a hunter.
Slowly, he lowered his arms and rested them on the surface of the lake, the muscles in his chest again shifting in interesting ways. He advanced. His feet, always so sure of themselves, did not miss a step. The water grew shallower as he came closer, revealing more of his naked torso as he approached. Thea’s hungry eyes tried to devour all of him at once: the broad shoulders, the muscular arms, water sliding over the hairs on his chest. More ridges of muscle, like weathered bricks in a timeless castle wall. His navel. Was that more hair? And then—
He stopped. Right in front of her. The water lapped at his lean waist, vexingly hiding what lay beneath. On his arms, dark hairs gathered in wet spikes, the sun catching in the drops of water.