that was the case, then his taste was quite at fault,’ Rafe said impulsively, bestowing upon her his real smile.
It quite transformed his face. Henrietta blushed rosily, but even as she struggled for a response, the smile was gone, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Utterly confused, she folded her arms defensively. ‘You don’t really believe a word I’ve said, do you?’
The dressing gown gaped. Rafe caught a glimpse of creamy flesh spilling from a plain white cotton undergarment. The rake in him would have allowed his glance to linger. He wanted to look, but it was his wanting that made him look resolutely away. Nothing touches you any more. The memory of his friend Lucas’s words made Rafe smile bitterly to himself. True, thank God, if you didn’t count the all-pervading guilt. He had worked very hard to ensure it was so and that was exactly how he intended it to continue. Wanting was no longer part of his emotional make-up. Wanting Henrietta Markham, he told himself sternly, was completely out of the question.
‘You have to admit that it sounds a tall tale,’ he said to her, his voice made more dismissive by the need to offset his thoughts, ‘but my opinion is of little importance. I would have thought the more pressing issue for you is whether or not Lady Ipswich believes you.’ He got to his feet purposefully. Henrietta Markham had been a very beguiling distraction, but the time had come to put an end to this extraordinary interlude and for them both to return to the real world. ‘I will arrange for you to be taken back in my carriage. Your dress should be dry by now.’ He pulled the bell rope to summon the housekeeper.
Henrietta scrabbled to her feet. He was quite plainly bored by the whole matter. And by her. She should not be surprised. She should certainly not feel hurt. She was, after all, just a lowly governess with a preposterous story; he was an earl with an important life and no doubt a string of beautiful women with whom to carry on his dalliances. Women who didn’t wear brown dresses and who most certainly didn’t lie around waiting to be pulled out of ditches. ‘I must thank you again for rescuing me,’ she said in what she hoped was a curt voice, though she suspected it sounded rather huffy. ‘Please forgive me for taking up quite so much of your time.’
‘It was a pleasure, Miss Markham, but a word of warning before you go.’ Rafe tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger. Her eyes were liquid bronze. Really, quite her most beautiful feature. He met her gaze coolly, though he didn’t feel quite as cool as he should. He wasn’t used to having his equilibrium disturbed. ‘Don’t expect to be lauded as a heroine,’ he said softly. ‘Helen Ipswich is neither a very credulous nor a particularly kind person.’ He took her hand, just brushing the back of it with his lips. ‘Good luck, Henrietta Markham, and goodbye. If you return to your room, I’ll send Mrs Peters up with your dress. She will also see you out.’
He could not resist pressing his lips to her hand. She tasted delightful. The scent of her and the feel of her skin on his mouth shot a dart of pleasure to his groin. He dropped her hand abruptly, turned on his heels and left without a backward glance.
Just the faintest touch of his mouth on her skin, but she could feel it there still. Henrietta lifted her hand to her cheek and held it there until the tingling faded. It took a long time before it finally did.
Molly Peters, Rafe’s long-suffering housekeeper, was an apple-shaped woman with rosy cheeks. Her husband, Albert, who alone was permitted to call her his little pippin, was head groom. Molly had started service in the previous earl’s day as a scullery maid, ascending by way of back parlourmaid, chambermaid and front parlourmaid, before eventually serving, briefly and unhappily, as lady’s maid to the last countess. Upon her ladyship’s untimely death, Master Rafe had appointed Molly to the heady heights of housekeeper, with her own set of keys and her own parlour.
Running the household was a task Molly Peters undertook with pride and carried out extremely competently. Indeed, she would have executed it with gusto had she been given the opportunity, but even when the last countess had been alive, Woodfield Manor had seldom been used as a residence. As a result, Mrs Peters had little to do and was frankly a little bored. Henrietta’s unorthodox arrival provided some welcome excitement and consequently induced an unaccustomed garrulousness in the usually reserved housekeeper.
‘I’ve known Master Rafe all his life, since he was a babe,’ she said in answer to Henrietta’s question. ‘A bonny babe he was, too, and so clever.’
‘He has certainly retained his looks,’ Henrietta ventured, struggling into her newly brushed, but none the less indisputably brown dress.
Mrs Peters pursed her lips. ‘Certainly, he has no shortage of admirers,’ she said primly. ‘A man like Lord Pentland, with those looks and the Pentland title behind him, to say nothing of the fact that he’s as rich as Croesus, will always attract the ladies, but the master is—well, miss, the truth is …’ She looked over her shoulder, as if Rafe would suddenly appear in the bedchamber. ‘Truth is, he’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, as my Albert puts it, though I say there’s little loving and a darn sight more leaving. I don’t know why I’m telling you this except you seem such a nice young lady and it wouldn’t do to—But then, he’s not a libertine, if you know what I mean.’
Henrietta tried to look knowledgeable, though in truth she wasn’t exactly sure she understood the distinction between rake and libertine. Certainly Mama had never made one. She was attempting to formulate a question that would persuade Mrs Peters to enlighten her without revealing her own ignorance when the housekeeper heaved a huge sigh and clucked her teeth. ‘He wasn’t always like that, mind. I blame that wife of his.’
‘He’s married!’ Henrietta’s jaw dropped with shock. ‘I didn’t know.’ But why should she? Contrary to what his lordship thought, Henrietta was not a great one for gossip. Generally speaking, she closed her ears to it, which is why Rafe St Alban’s accusations had hurt. In fact, she had only become aware of his reputation recently, a chance remark of her employer’s having alerted her. But if he was married, it made his behaviour so much worse. Somewhat irrationally, Henrietta felt a little betrayed, as if he had lied to her, even though it was actually none of her business. ‘I hadn’t heard mention of a wife,’ she said.
‘That’s because she’s dead,’ Mrs Peters replied quietly. ‘Five years ago now.’
‘So he’s a widower!’ He looked even less like one of those. ‘What happened? How did she die? When did they marry? Was he—did they—was it a love match? Was he devastated?’ The questions tripped one after another off her tongue. Only the astonished look on Mrs Peters’s face made her stop. ‘I am just curious,’ Henrietta said lamely.
Mrs Peters eyed her warily. ‘Her name was Lady Julia. I’ve said more than enough already, the master doesn’t like her to be talked about. But if you’re ready to go, I can show you a likeness of her on the way out, if you want.’
The portrait hung in the main vestibule. The subject was depicted gazing meditatively into the distance, her willowy figure seated gracefully on a rustic swing bedecked with roses. ‘Painted the year she died, that was,’ Mrs Peters said.
‘She is—was—very beautiful,’ Henrietta said wistfully.
‘Oh, she was lovely, no doubt about that,’ Mrs Peters said, ‘though handsome is as handsome does.’
‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Peters looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’
‘How long were they married?’
‘Six years. Master Rafe was only a boy, not even twenty, when they were wed. She was a few years older than him. It
