“Is that what you think?” He kissed her again, swiftly, deeply, and she tasted the salt of her own tears and the earthiness of the rains on his tongue. “Did that feel like a bleeding obligation to you? Did it feel like I am only worried about your cousin?”
“No.” She bit her lip, studying his beloved face, trying to understand him.
“What it should have felt like is the kiss of a man who loves you, Lady Persephone Calcot,” he said, “because that’s what I damned well am. I’m the man who loves you.”
Her real name.
He had used her full name.
And he loved her.
Rafe loves me.
It was seemingly impossible yet wonderful, like the luminosity of the stars in the night sky.
“You love me?”
“I love you.” He was solemn, stroking her cheek, patient and strong.
Wiser than she was. Why had she run from him?
Here is your chance, Persephone. Worry about repercussions later.
“I love you too, Rafe.” She turned her head, pressed a kiss to his leather-clad finge
rs as the rain came down faster and harder. “I shall go with you.”
He kissed her again, his lips smiling against hers. “Thank Christ, lovely.”
CHAPTER 14
The Marquess of Silwood arrived at Abingdon Hall with more haste than Rafe had anticipated after sending word that Persephone would not be returning to Silwood Manor and that she would instead be remaining at Abingdon Hall. But then, when a man stood to lose as much as Silwood did, desperation often proved an excellent motivator. And Rafe had been hoping for just that.
He was prepared, and not just with the pistol secreted in his waistcoat or the blade hidden in his boot.
“Where is my betrothed?” the marquess demanded coldly.
Silwood was a tall man, broad shouldered, and uglier than the devil. More mean-spirited, too. His massive form, along with the tales Persephone had shared of his appetite for inflicting pain on others, made it more than clear to Rafe why she had feared him. And why she had been so convinced he would truly see Rafe murdered. But Rafe didn’t scare easily, and he was more than prepared to take on the Marquess of Silwood.
And he’d win, too.
Rafe flashed the other man a smug smile, clasping his hands behind his back as if he were utterly at ease. “She ain’t your betrothed, Silwood.”
The marquess’s nostrils flared as if he scented something malodorous. “The banns have been read. Lady Persephone is indeed my betrothed, and I demand to see her. Send for her now.”
“You can make demands all you like, my lord, but it won’t change a bleeding thing. Lady Persephone ain’t going to marry you. She’s going to marry me.” And as he said those words, his chest felt as if it expanded to fill the entire room.
Persephone loved him. She wanted to marry him. He was happier than any man had a right to be, and he would do everything and anything in his power to make certain the Marquess of Silwood couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it.
“That is absurd,” Silwood snapped, spittle flying from his lips. “She is the daughter of a marquess. She would never stoop so low as to wed a baseborn criminal from the rookeries such as yourself. If you insist on prolonging this farce, I’ll have no choice but to involve the law.”
“The law, eh?” Rafe’s grin deepened. “I’m sure the law would find a great deal of interest in you and the funds you’ve thieved from Lady Persephone’s trust.”
Silwood’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “I have not thieved a farthing of my betrothed’s trust. How dare you suggest otherwise, you vile cur? Any expenses that have been extracted have been for her benefit.”
Rafe was deuced grateful for the Sutton’s friendship with the Winter family. If it had not been for Devereaux Winter and Dominic Winter’s timely intervention, Persephone would have allowed herself to be forced into marrying this miserable sack of cow shite.
“On the contrary, my lord,” he said smoothly, knowing he possessed the advantage in this battle of theirs and understanding the Marquess of Silwood wrongly believed he did. “You have been using Lady Persephone’s inheritance to fund your gaming habits. But unfortunately for you, your luck at the green baize is bloody dreadful. You have written more vowels than you will ever have a prayer of repaying unless you get your greedy hands on her entire fortune. Ain’t that right, Silwood?”