Chapter 8
Heat rushed into Darcy’s face, and her heart gave a treacherous flutter the instant her gaze collided with the Earl of Raine’s.
Her sisters skipped ahead along the path in Hyde Park, wholly enchanted by the sweep of green, the glitter of carriages, and the elegant parade of ladies and gentlemen in their finery.
Darcy prayed he would canter past. He had not called since settling them in Russell Square four days ago.
She had not returned to Aphrodite either, though a letter had arrived from Madam Rebecca with a neat contract and the promise that a discreet attendant would always remain nearby while she painted.
The sum of one hundred pounds had also been enclosed, for the earl had purchased the study she made of him.
Darcy had slipped the sum into her valise, taken it out three separate times to count, and each time replaced it with a throb of disbelief.
One hundred pounds was a fortune, and it made everything all the more real.
She would use her talent to secure a future for herself and her sisters.
She could do it, and more than that, she would.
She tore her gaze from the earl, forcing herself to look away and not dwell on the sharp jolt in her chest the moment her eyes found him.
Because the earl had shown no intention of associating with them publicly, Darcy had expected him to pass them by.
Her heart pinched, but she reminded herself not to expect anything of him.
He had already shown great kindness by providing them a roof; he was not obliged to offer his company or to bolster their standing within society.
To her shock, the earl drew his stallion to a measured halt at the edge of the promenade, the stallion tossing its head before settling beneath the light pressure of his hand.
With the unstudied grace of a man entirely at home in a saddle, he swung down.
A groom in discreet livery hurried forward to take the reins; the earl’s gloved hand brushed the animal’s neck in a brief, soothing stroke.
He looked impossibly correct in a dark riding coat, buff breeches, and gleaming Hessians, the pale light finding the blue in his eyes and turning it keen.
Darcy dropped into a curtsy. He lowered his head in return, the barest inclination.
Around them, the promenade shifted. A lady in dove-gray paused to glance back; a pair of young bucks slowed their strut to whisper and grin. Gossip and speculation traveled quickly in London.
“Mrs. Whitley,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
“My lord.” Darcy’s voice was steady, though her pulse was not, and her face heated.
“You are blushing.”
Startled, she met his eyes. Darcy had not expected him to be so pointed. “The sun,” she said primly.
The corner of his mouth quirked. “The sky is overcast, Mrs. Whitley.”
“Then it must be the exercise,” Darcy returned, as coolly as she could. “Or perhaps it is the intensity of your observation. A lady might grow warm beneath such scrutiny, my lord.”
She could hardly admit she was recalling the glide of his fingers on his manhood and the cut of his chest, so she met his gaze and softly added, “Nevertheless, I thank you for stopping, my lord. Your notice will carry weight, whether you intended the kindness or not.”
Darcy knew enough of the ton to understand that a public word from a man of his consequence might open doors, if one knew where to knock. The ton would devise its own explanation for his notice, and for once its speculation might serve her sisters rather than wound them.
It was an impulse,” he returned coolly. “I advise you not to mistake it for anything more.”
Darcy’s chest squeezed. “Then I am grateful for the impulse, my lord.”
His jaw hardened, and his gaze took in Emelia, Jane, and Sarah, who had stopped a little way on and now hovered, uncertain, watching. “You and your sisters are well?”
“We are,” she replied. “The townhouse is very comfortable, and the staff is attentive and capable.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He spoke without warmth or rudeness, simply with cool civility polished to a sheen. “I have been engaged at every hour; otherwise, I should have called sooner.”
“Of course, my lord. We did not presume to hope for a visit from you.”
There was a part of her that reeled at how cold he held himself, so unlike the man she had painted, who had pulsed with raw, carnal vitality. It was as if that heat had been drawn off, and only a powerful, intimidating shadow remained. Darcy wondered how many different masks the Earl of Raine wore.
A phaeton rattled by with bright wheels and brighter laughter.
On Rotten Row beyond the trees, riders passed in a shining file, bits ringing, hooves striking the tan with that rhythmic, pleasant sound that always made Darcy think of far fields and open sky.
A faint breeze lifted the ribbons at her bonnet and carried the scent of crushed grass and horse.
Her sisters drew near, nerves plain in their eyes. They dipped curtsies and offered greetings to their brother. How strange it felt to name him so, even in the privacy of her thoughts.
He inclined his head with his customary reserve. “Miss Emelia. Miss Jane. Miss Sarah. I trust you are enjoying the park.”
“It is very pleasant out, my lord,” Jane said, gripping the edges of her gown to hide the trembling of her hands.
Darcy’s heart pinched for her sisters; their need for his regard and acceptance was painfully evident.
She understood it, for their father had been gone these many years and no gentleman’s steadiness had shaped their days.
This man was their blood, whether or not he chose to bestow the fond sincerity of an elder brother.
Once, they had played in the meadows and climbed trees without care, dreaming of what it might feel like to have a brother, never daring to imagine that he already existed somewhere in the world.
“We were terribly bored in the house,” Sarah blurted, unable to endure the strained silence any longer. “So we came to the park.”
One of his brows rose, and his gaze settled upon her face. “Bored?”
“Yes, we know no one in town,” Sarah rushed on, “and we spend our time sitting at the window and watching people pass. We invent stories about who they are and where they might be going, but even that has grown tiresome. We wished to come outside, and Darcy said it was proper. We are sorry if we ought not have ventured out without your leave—”
“We are not dirty secrets meant to be hidden away,” Darcy said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Do not think it, Sarah. Not ever.”
A lump formed in Darcy’s throat. Only then did she realize Sarah feared Lord Raine’s disapproval. How quickly her little sister braced for the notion they had somehow done wrong in his eyes.
The earl said nothing at first. A muscle tightened in his jaw, but when his gaze touched her sisters, it revealed nothing beyond cool reserve.
“You require no permission to walk in the park, Miss Sarah,” he said at last. “Good day. I have business to attend.”
Relief flickered across Sarah’s face, only to fade when he made no move to remain.
Darcy wanted to ask him to stay longer for her sister’s sake, but swallowed the words.
They dipped curtsies. He gathered the reins, set a hand to the pommel, and vaulted to the saddle in a motion so clean it looked effortless.
Within a handful of strides, he had joined the slow tide of riders, his profile dark and beautiful against the pale sky.
Whispers stirred in his wake, curious and speculative but harmless for now. Darcy drew a steady breath and turned to her sisters with a smile. “Come,” she said lightly. “We shall finish our walk and afterward try the famous ices we have heard so much about.”
They brightened and moved ahead, laughing as the breeze teased their ribbons.
Darcy fell in step behind them. A prickle warmed the nape of her neck; she knew she was being watched.
She paused and glanced back. Lord Raine was some distance away, seated with effortless grace upon his stallion, yet his eyes were fixed on her.
Heat climbed Darcy’s cheeks. She held the earl’s gaze a heartbeat too long.
There was something searching in the way he regarded her, something so intent and penetrating that she had the unsettling impression he sought to see beyond every carefully maintained layer of composure.
As though he might strip them away one by one and discover what lay beneath, every vulnerability she guarded, every hidden strength, every secret she had no intention of surrendering to him or anyone else.
Darcy turned away at last, vexed by the wild flutter in her chest and no wiser as to why he looked at her as though whatever she chose to reveal would never be quite enough for him.
Dearest Seb,