Page 119 of The Earl She Once Saved

“Our families have known one another for years. There has always been an … expectation of some understanding.”

“I see.”

She looked again at the drawings. He knew what he had allowed her to believe: that they were relics, nothing more, the foolish work of a young soldier, and that whatever place she once possessed in his mind had long since been given to someone more suitable, someone unmarried.

“That explains it,” she said.

“What?”

“Why they were shut in a chest.”

Rafe had no answer. Verity crossed to the door. This time he moved aside. Her skirts brushed his leg as she passed. The slight contact burned through the cloth. Sergeant followed her but paused at the threshold and looked back.

“Go,” Rafe told him.

The dog’s ears lowered. Then he trotted after Verity. The door closed. Rafe stood alone amid a dozen versions of the woman he had just driven from the room.

Calling upon Celestine had been no part of his afternoon. Now he would have to go, if only to make the lie true.

He crouched and gathered the drawings. His hands were rough against the fragile pages. Upon the last sheet, Verity stood beside a window with sunlight across her face. He had imagined that smile before he ever saw it.

Rafe replaced the portrait in the folio, tied the cord and shut it in the campaign chest. This time he turned the key.

An hour later, he was riding toward Marchmont House. The day had become warm. Dust rose beneath the horse’s hooves and settled upon his boots. In the hedges, late roses drooped beneath their own weight. Their scent followed him along the road, cloying in the still air.

Celestine received him in a drawing room made golden by the afternoon sun. She was wearing pale green silk and looked as though she had been expecting him, though no message had preceded his arrival. A tea service stood ready upon a low table. White flowers filled the room with a sweet perfume.

“My lord.” Her pleasure was immediate and unguarded. “What a delightful surprise.”

He bowed over her hand. “Miss Marchmont.”

“Celestine,” she corrected.

“Celestine.”

She smiled and drew him toward the sofa. He sat. Tea appeared. Celestine spoke of neighbors, dinners, and assemblies with an ease that required nothing from him but occasional agreement.

Rafe watched sunlight tremble across the surface of his untouched cup. All he could see was Verity kneeling beside his chest with her face buried in her hands.

“I always thought you would come back eventually,” Celestine chirped amusedly.

His attention returned too late. “I beg your pardon?”

“To the county.”

“Yes.”

“London might claim a man for a few seasons, and the army for rather longer, but one cannot entirely escape where one belongs.”

Rafe thought of Verity saying his drawings had been shut away because Celestine explained them.

“No,” he nodded. “Perhaps not.”

Celestine leaned back. Satisfaction warmed her expression.

“Our families always believed that things would fall out naturally once you returned.” She smiled into her cup. “Two old county families, two people who have known one another all their lives. It is the sort of arrangement everyone sees before those concerned are sensible enough to see it themselves.”

Rafe set down his tea. “Celestine—”