Page 29 of Raked Away in September

“My life has changed, Elena.” Rowan’s voice was steady, but there was a hard, warning edge to it now. He reached down and took Tamsin’s gloved hand, lifting it to drape over his forearm in a clear, possessive gesture. “As you well know. Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Tamsin, the Countess of Haversham. Tamsin, this is Elena. She must be tonight’s entertainment.”

Elena’s eyes flickered to their joined hands, her smile tightening for a fraction of a second before she recovered her poised façade. “Ah, the new countess. The lady you chased after at Vauxhall.” She gave Tamsin a slow, patronizing curtsy. “I have been so terribly eager to meet the woman who managed to cage the wild earl.”

“I assure you,” Tamsin said, her voice remarkably cool and steady despite the storm raging in her chest, “my husband is not a beast to be caged. He is a kind and generous man.”

Rowan’s eyes flashed with sudden, quiet approval, his fingers squeezing hers beneath the silk of her glove. But she couldn’t help thinking that he’d been the one to choose this out of all the invitations they’d received. Had he wanted to see Elena again?

Elena let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Oh, how charming. You truly are smitten with him. But do be careful, my dear. Wild creatures can get terribly restless when the winter sets in.” She leaned down slightly, her fan brushing Rowan’s shoulder. It felt far too familiar to Tamsin. “Do not forget, Rowan, you still owe me a dance from the Somerset ball. I expect to collect on that debt soon.”

“I am afraid my dancing days are done,” Rowan replied coldly. “Except for those reserved for my wife.”

Elena’s smile finally faltered. She drew herself up, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Of course. How... domestic.” With a tight, elegant nod, she turned on her heel and swept back into the crowd, her emerald skirts rustling like dry leaves.

Tamsin stared after her, her breath coming in shallow, ragged spurts. The encounter had lasted less than two minutes, but she felt as though she had just survived a physical duel. She had never been so humiliated.

“Tamsin,” Rowan whispered, turning toward her, his voice filled with anxious concern. “Look at me.”

She couldn’t. If she looked at him, she was afraid she would read the lie in his eyes, or worse, the truth of his regret. She pulled her hand back from his arm, resting it in her lap.

“She is very beautiful,” Tamsin said quietly, her eyes fixed on the harpist who was adjusting her instrument for the next piece.

“She is nothing to me,” Rowan said fiercely, his hand finding hers again and refusing to let go. “She never was, Tamsin.”

But as the harpist began to play, the beautiful, melancholic melody did nothing to quiet the cold fear blooming in Tamsin’s heart. Would he one day be telling another woman the same thing about her?

As the harp’s sorrowful chords reverberated through the room, Rowan struggled to understand how things had gone so terribly wrong. A yawning distance had opened between him and Tamsin, and he didn’t know how to cross it.

Why hadn’t he realized that Elena might be here tonight? She often performed at this sort of gathering. Why hadn’t he picked something else to attend with Tamsin?

He was cursing both himself and Elena, and wishing heartily that they’d stayed home tonight, when a low, familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Well, here’s something I thought I’d never see.”

Rowan looked up, his defensive posture melting instantly at the sight of Lysander Thorne, the Marquess of Ashford. Lysander stood there with an amused smirk, his coat impeccably tailored, his eyes sparkling with the dry humor that had gotten Rowan into a dozen youthful scrapes. Lysander had been taking care of estate business in the country, so they hadn’t spoken since before Rowan’s world had exploded in Vauxhall Gardens earlier in the month.

“Ashford,” Rowan said, his voice carrying a genuine relief he couldn’t quite mask. It was good to finally see a friendly face in this crowd of vipers.

“And this must be Lady Haversham,” Lysander said, offering Tamsin a warm, entirely respectful bow. “I must apologize for interrupting, but I hope you’ll allow me to steal your husband away for a few minutes. He is my oldest friend, and I only just now heard about your recent nuptials. I intend to take him to task about not inviting me to the wedding.”

Tamsin’s face was a pale, polite mask, her eyes fixed on Lysander with desperate composure. Rowan felt a sickening wave of guilt. Leaving her now, right after Elena’s predatory display, felt like throwing her to the wolves. But he needed to take a step away and compose himself, figure out how he could repair the damage Elena had done.

“I don’t mind,” Tamsin said quietly, her voice perfectly level, though Rowan could feel the faint tremor in her fingers. “Please, Rowan. Do not let me keep you from your friend.”

“I won’t be long, Tamsin,” Rowan whispered, leaning in so his lips brushed her temple. He hated the way she slightly stiffened. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”

With a nod to Ashford, Rowan rose and led the way out of the crowded parlor. They navigated the busy hallways of the Radcliff town house, slipping into the quiet sanctuary of the host’s vacant billiard room. The air here was much cooler than it had been in the drawing room, smelling of chalk, beeswax, and stale brandy.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, Ashford let out a low whistle and leaned against the edge of the billiard table. “Leg-shackled. You, the Rake of September, brought to the altar in less than a fortnight. I had to read the Brazen Belle three times to ensure I hadn’t succumbed to brain fever.”

Rowan ran a hand over his face, knowing that his cool, aristocratic mask was slipping to reveal a deep, exhausting weariness. “Do not start. I am in no mood.”

“I am not teasing—well, perhaps a little,” Ashford corrected with a grin. “But in all seriousness, what happened? The gossip sheets are calling it the scandal of the decade. How on earth were you caught in the Dark Walks with Fairchild’s little sister? She’s a beauty, but didn’t you know you couldn’t compromise someone like her without paying the price?”

“I didn’t compromise her,” Rowan said flatly, pacing the length of the green felt table. “I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We both were. But after the Brazen Belle wrote that article, I had to do right by her. The alternative was a duel, and I was not about to kill Wilding or let him kill me.”

“So, you married her.” Ashford’s expression softened, the amusement fading into genuine concern. “How are you holding up? Is it horrible? What is she like?”

“She is magnificent,” Rowan said softly, stopping his pacing. The confession surprised even him. “She is sharp, brilliant, and holds herself like a queen, even when her world is burning down around her. And she... she frightens the life out of me.”