Page 5 of Raked Away in September

Rowan had only made it about halfway down the stairs when Nicolas Fairchild, who was pacing the foyer like a caged wolf, spun around, his face white with a fury so cold it seemed to drop the temperature of the room.

“Haversham,” Nicolas spat. “You kept me waiting long enough.”

“Wilding,” Rowan replied when he reached the bottom step, trying to feign a bored nonchalance that he didn’t truly feel. Wilding had every right to be angry, but he thought the man’s anger was misplaced. He should be searching out the identity of the Belle and pounding on her door at the crack of dawn.

Rowan gestured toward the drawing room. “Since you’ve already woken my household and threatened my butler, perhaps we might take this somewhere we won’t be overheard by the scullery maids?”

Wilding didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his coat and produced a glove, slapping it against Rowan’s chest. “I have no interest in your hospitality. Name your second. My friend, Captain Arbuthnot, will call on him by noon.”

Rowan looked down at the glove, then back at Nicolas. He felt a weary sort of pity. “A duel, Wilding? Over a gossip column? You’ve always been prone to dramatics, but this is absurd.”

“Absurd?” Wilding’s voice cracked. “You ruined her. You took my sister, a girl who has never known a moment of scandal, into the Dark Walks of Vauxhall and left her for the gossips to feast upon. I will see you dead for it.”

Rowan leaned against the newel post, crossing his arms. “I didn’t touch her, Wilding. I didn’t even speak to her. I was with someone else last night. Your sister happened upon us, and I could tell she was upset, so I ran after her, but I lost her in the trees. If you kill me, you only prove the Belle right. Is that what you want? To turn a misunderstanding into murder?”

“Why did you care that she was upset?” Nicolas demanded, stepping closer until they were inches apart. “I should think that you’d be amused by her finding you in flagrante delicto. You’ve spent your life mocking everything I value. You’ve hated me since Eton.”

Rowan sighed. “I never hated you, Nicolas. I was annoyed by you. You were so busy being perfect that you forgot to be human. But none of that is Miss Tamsin’s fault.”

Nicolas stared at him for a long moment, then cursed and put some distance between them. “I believe you. But it doesn’t matter. She’s ruined now.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” Rowan raked a hand through his hair, glad that Nicolas was calming down. “I am a better shot than you, and we both know it. If we stand on the field at dawn, I will walk away, and Miss Tamsin will be a dead man’s sister. How does that help her?”

Nicolas flinched. He obviously knew Rowan was the superior marksman. His shoulders slumped, though his jaw remained set. “Then what is left? Her reputation is gone. The Belle has seen to that. By tonight, no decent house in London will open its doors to her.”

The silence in the foyer grew heavy. Rowan looked past Nicolas, toward the street where the London fog was beginning to lift. He thought of Tamsin’s eyes in the dark—the way she hadn’t looked away. He thought of the way his heart had hammered when he saw her.

He had spent years avoiding the shackles of marriage, but the desperate, broken pride of the man before him made a sinking, inevitable feeling settle in his gut.

“There is another way,” Rowan said, the words like a lead weight in his throat. “A way that silences the Belle and restores Miss Tamsin’s reputation.”

Wilding looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You cannot mean⁠—”

“I will marry her,” Rowan offered.

Wilding stared at him, stunned. “You would tie yourself to a family you despise? Why would you do such a thing if you really don’t know her?”

“I don’t despise her,” Rowan corrected quietly. “And my family has been pressuring me to wed and produce an heir for years.” He straightened his coat, his resolve hardening. “A Special License. We can be married by the end of the week. We will tell the world it’s a love match. That should quiet the gossips or at least give them something different to talk about.”

Wilding was silent for a long moment, obviously weighing his disdain for Rowan against his love for his sister. Finally, he gave a curt, stiff nod. “Fine. But you can’t marry her and then just banish her to the country. You will live in town to ensure that her place in society is secure, and so I can regularly check that you’re treating her well. And if you ever—ever—cause her a moment’s grief, I will find a way to kill you, duel or no.”

“I won’t hurt her,” Rowan said, even though he feared that was a promise he couldn’t keep. He’d never hurt her physically, of course. But he knew nothing of being a husband, and by his very nature, he was certain to make her unhappy. She would expect more of him than he could give. It was inevitable.

How had this happened? Why did he care about the fate of this woman he didn’t even know?

“Thank you,” Wilding said stiffly. “I didn’t expect this of you.”

Neither did I.

As Nicolas turned to leave, Rowan felt a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. He would be married by the end of the week to a wife with whom he’d never exchanged a single word.

Well, I need to change that.

“Wilding,” Rowan called out just as Nicolas reached the front door.

Nicolas paused.

“Tell Miss Tamsin... tell her I shall call this afternoon to formally ask for her hand.” Perhaps she would refuse him, and he could rest easy knowing he’d done what he could to fix this ridiculous situation.