But she had been intelligent enough to understand that becoming Cousin Bartholomew’s wife was not the future she wanted for herself. She had formulated her plan, and then, when the opportunity had struck, she had run.
She was still running. All these years later.
If he caught her now…
She shivered, refusing to allow her mind to travel to such a possibility. Cousin Bartholomew did not appreciate a challenge to his brutal authority. Nor did he approve of a woman with her own mind and will, one who did not wish to become his pawn.
“Lovely?”
On a gasp, she spun about, hand to her heart. And there he was. Not the specter of her terrified imaginings. No indeed, Cousin Bartholomew had not found her here. She could only continue to hope and pray he would not.
The man standing before her was Rafe Sutton.
Her Rafe.
Dare she think of him in such terms? She had no right. He did not know who she truly was. Her life was a massive knot of lies.
“Rafe,” she said, half of her believing he was an apparition, the product of her feverish longing for him.
It had been three nights.
The longest nights of her life.
How had he managed to slip inside her room, unheard, unnoticed?
“Tell me you are not a ghost,” she added, although she felt foolish the moment the words emerged.
He was near to the door, dressed in evening finery, and he could not have looked more polished and handsome if he were waltzing beneath the blazing candles of a society ball. Or, at least, she imagined he would not. Persephone had never been able to attend a true society event. Cousin Bartholomew had made certain to keep her secluded. The air was wholesome in Oxfordshire, he had claimed, not at all thick with soot and fog as it was in London.
It had been yet another self-serving lie her guardian had told her.
Forcefully, Persephone thrust thoughts of Cousin Bartholomew from her mind. Rafe was here, and he was all she wanted to think, to know, to feel. Even if he stood somewhat hesitantly, several strides between them, he was here.
With her.
That had to account for something.
Surely?
“I ain’t a ghost, sweet,” Rafe said, sauntering toward her in that way he had, such pure, masculine confidence on display. “I’m damned real. Pinch me if you like.”
His offer was silliness. But she did not care. Seizing upon an excuse to cut the distance between them and touch him, she moved forward. When he was within reach, she extended her right arm, her hand finding his biceps. Through the layers of his coat and shirt, his heat w
armed her.
Brought her back to life.
She caught his skin and those outer layers between thumb and forefinger and did as he had suggested. Pinched. A small punishment for his absence.
“Ah!” He started, moving away from her and rubbing the place where she had touched him. “That bleeding hurt. I didn’t truly intend for you to pinch me.”
“Then you should not have encouraged me to do so,” she countered, feeling ridiculously irritated with him now that he had finally appeared. “And nor should you have left me here for three nights, wondering where you have gone or why.”
The last bit, she had meant to keep to herself. But of course, she had blurted the words without thought. Curse her foolish tongue.
He raised a brow, considering her, lips half-quirked upward in a charming rascal’s smile, the slightest hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek. “You missed me then, did you?”
Had he thought she would not?