“Me?” Mrs. Summers’s eyes widened behind the magnifying lens of her glasses. “Oh no! It was difficult enough to teach you girls how to be proper ladies. I could never teach a grown man.” She shook her head. “I think you’re far better suited for this task than I. You’ve attended embassy receptions and parties and balls . . . while I sat with all the other widows watching the gaiety of you young folk. You’d be a better judge of what’s acceptable in these modern times than I.” She bent back to her needlework without further issue.
Arianne stood, her arms folded across her chest. There was some truth to that, though perhaps not in the way Mrs. Summers implied.
Hastings interrupted. “Pardon me, miss, but there’s a Mr. Rafferty to see you. He says he’s expected.”
Her breath caught. He’d found her! She shouldn’t be surprised. She wasn’t exactly hiding, but she wasn’t sure he would actually appear at her doorstep. The longcase clock in the hallway sounded two bells, eliciting a quick frown. He was punctual . . . for a libertine. She glanced toward Hastings. “Could you show him to the blue salon? I shall be down immediately.”
Hastings nodded. The door closed silently behind him. Arianne turned to Mrs. Summers.
“He’s here!” Arianne paced in a tight circle before the chair. “I’ve been so preoccupied with thoughts of Kitty and the impending trip that I haven’t given much thought to what I should teach him . . . if he were to really come.” She stopped and turned pleading eyes toward her teacher. “What should I do?”
Mrs. Summers set her needlework aside, then stood. “I think you should go and greet the man.” She placed a hand at the small of Arianne’s back and walked with her toward the door. “I’m sure appropriate lessons will come as you assess his particular needs. What will be his first social obligation as head of the legation?”
“You mean after he expresses his condolences to Lady Weston?” A sob caught in her throat as she was reminded of Lord Weston’s demise. Mrs. Summers nodded and waited until Arianne could continue. “Generally the first obligation is to meet the ruling entity of one’s host country.”
Mrs. Summers smiled, her eyes warm with encouragement. “That sounds like a good place to start.”
ARIANNE APPROACHED THE SALON BUT PAUSED IN THE hallway to observe Mr. Rafferty studying one of her brother’s paintings. Although most of the family portraits hung at the ancestral estate of Deerfield Abbey, the London town house had a fair allotment. Interesting that of all the paintings on the walls, Rafferty would choose that particular landscape, her favorite, to study.
He was a fine-looking man, from his powerful shoulders to his trim hips. She was to mold him into a gentleman, but there was nothing “gentle” about him, except perhaps his hair. The thought made her smile. His hat lay on the cushion of a nearby wing chair, allowing her a glimpse of his full, thick black hair. While the rest of him warned of contained savagery, his hair almost beckoned touch. A bit longer than current fashion, the ends curled much like that of a young boy. If she were to trim it, would he lose some of his threatening qualities, much like Samson of the biblical tales? Surely, it was that sense of danger surrounding him that set a low vibration in her bones whenever she saw him.
“This is one of your brother’s early works,” he said without glancing in her direction.
“I . . . I didn’t know you realized I was here.” Flustered, she soothed the front of her black skirts. “Are you familiar with my brother’s work?”
He turned his gaze toward her. “I heard your footsteps and”—he sniffed—“ jasmine today?” A slight smile lifted his lips. “Were you studying me, Lady Arianne?”
Caught in the act! Her faced warmed. “You are not an unattractive man, Mr. Rafferty. I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable.”
“On the contrary.” He straightened. His gaze swept over her with a knowing smile. “Perhaps it would make you feel at ease if I admit that I find you attractive as well.”
His comment had the reverse effect. The appreciation in his eyes nearly took her breath away. But she reminded herself that she had been in a similar situation before. Baron Von Dieter had blinded her with compliments, and she had foolishly believed them all. She was no longer a gullible little miss, but then what exactly was she? She took a deep breath, lowered her gaze, then strode into the salon. “I’ve been thinking about what we should discuss today, Mr. Rafferty. I’ve been reminded that your first order of business in Washington will be for you and your wife to call upon the president of the United States.”
His eyes creased as his smile deepened.
“Did I say something amiss?” she asked, failing to see what caused his amusement.
“I find it difficult to reconcile the words ‘my wife’ with a nonexistent personage,” he explained. “I’m sorry. You were speaking of President Garfield?”
“Yes, the very same.” She smiled, pleased that Mr. Rafferty was finally taking his role as British minister seriously. She absently picked up the heavy white ivory queen from an unfinished game of chess that she and Mrs. Summers had begun last evening. Her brother had written that the set was once owned by Napoleon Bonaparte while in exile at Saint Helena. It was only one of the many extravagant purchases her brother William had made after he’d married his heiress. Arianne slid her fingers over the intricate carving, wishing she had some of William’s sense of tactical maneuvering. She walked a very fine line with this man. “I see you’ve done some preparatory study.”
His lips tightened. In less time than it took to advance a pawn a space on the chessboard, the temperament in the room shifted. “I assure you, my lady, I do read.” His eyes narrowed in her direction. “The American president’s recent election was reported by the
Times
.”
Her cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant to insult him, yet apparently she’d done just that. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .” She set the chess piece back on its square, then clasped her hands in front of her, determined to clear some of the tension that crackled in the air. “I fear we may have begun on the wrong foot. I can see that you are a gentleman. Perhaps if we were—”
“But that’s where you are wrong, miss.” Rafferty fixed his gaze on her and moved closer, like a hunter stalking prey. “A learned man once defined a gentleman as one who never inflicts pain.” The cut on Rafferty’s lip reminded her that he was quite capable of that very thing. Goose bumps lifted on her arm.
Rafferty stepped close, too close. A tremor slipped down her spine. She tried to step back, but the chess table pressed her backside, blocking her retreat. He moved closer. A fragrance redolent of something earthy and familiar teased her senses, but she hadn’t the leisure to dwell on that now. Not when this powerfully built man stood near enough to steal her breath.
“By that definition, I’m not a gentleman.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “Do you understand?”
Her hand pushed the hard muscle of his chest to stop his further advance. At least, that was her intent. She glanced at her fingers that registered his heartbeat, the pulsing life of him, the vitality.
“There are all kinds of pain, Mr. Rafferty.” She glanced up, capturing his arrogant gaze. “Not all of them leave marks like that on your lip. Some leave bruises on your heart, even on your soul,” she said, remembering how her “gentleman” father had abused her mother and how the “gentleman” Baron had stolen her future. “Yet wounds are often inflicted by so-called gentlemen.”
He glanced at her hand, still lightly pressing his chest, then caught her gaze. His eyes softened with a strange curiosity. “What do you know of pain, Lady Arianne?”
The tender concern in his voice ripped her from hurtful memories. She quickly snatched her hand from his chest and glanced away. Christopher! What was she doing revealing her scars to a stranger? Why had she lingered over the feel of him when she had only meant to stop his advance? She attempted a smile to gather her thoughts. “Forgive me,” she said, flustered. “You were referring to that Toomey fellow, weren’t you?”
His fingers, sheathed in buttery soft leather, touched the edge of her jaw, guiding her gaze back to his. She fought to maintain a calm façade, while a conspiratorial smile filled his eyes, then spread to his lips. He stepped to the side, letting her compose herself while he appeared to study the chessboard. “It is true that I’m determined to see Basil Toomey pay for what he did to my family.”
Their connection severed, Arianne’s traitorous hand stole to her throat. Drawing a deep breath to slow her racing heartbeat, she reminded herself of her earlier resolution to be immune to masculine attraction. Only heartache waited along that path. “What . . . what exactly did he do?”
“He placed the Fenian bomb that killed my parents and little brother.” Rafferty’s words fell hard and cold in the dispassionate way of tragedy worn smooth by time. She’d heard the same tone in her own voice on those rare occasions when she spoke of the old Duke’s treatment of her mother. With two fingers, Rafferty pinched a black rook and let it hover over the board. “He confessed. He even took pride in the deed.” He lifted a brow her way. “I’m surprised you aren’t familiar with the name. It was in all the papers. You do read, Lady Arianne?”
She smiled, wise to his jest. She supposed she deserved that jibe for her own supposition. “Yes. I read. Frequently, in fact. However, I was too young at the time of that bombing to read the papers. I do remember mention of the incident in later years.”
“Perhaps you remember that he managed to escape the hangman with the help of his Fenian friends?” Rafferty set the rook down, on a different square than it had been before, then turned back toward her. “Time is my enemy. I’d be on my way to America right now if not for this ridiculous notion of procuring a bride.”
“It’s not ridiculous. I assure you a wife is an absolute necessity.” Arianne paused, uncertain if she should continue. She took a breath, deciding he deserved her honesty. “I’m not certain, however, that an actress will be able to convince anyone that she’s married to a British minister. She won’t have the background, the experience . . .”
“Then the actress and I should be perfectly matched, as you don’t believe I can convince anyone that I’m a British minister,” he challenged. Though he hadn’t reacted at the time, her words to Lord Henderson had obviously left a wound.
She bit her lip, wishing she could take back those sentiments. That was the trouble with giving voice to one’s thoughts. They always came back to haunt you. One would think she had learned that lesson with the Baron. She lowered her gaze. “I may have been hasty in my judgment.”
“Oh . . . ? And to what do I owe this change in opinion?”
She wanted to say that she felt a certain kinship for him, as he’d grown up without a family, much as she had. Granted, she had lost her mother at a young age, but given that the old Duke could barely tolerate the sight of her, she’d been abandoned as if she had lost both of them. She understood the loneliness of living among strangers. Glancing at him now, she allowed that her first impression of unsuitability was likely misguided. But she didn’t want to admit as much, not to him. “A hunch,” she replied simply.
“A hunch?” He laughed, and the infectious sound forced a smile to her lips as well. His eyes creased with humor, filling her with a sort of giddiness. “Are you a gambling woman, Lady Arianne?”
“No . . .” She grinned up at him until she realized she had held the posture overlong. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. He must believe she was little better than a chambermaid, all doe-eyed at his smile. The seductive rakehell!
Glancing away, she crossed to the fireplace, increasing the space between them. “No, Mr. Rafferty, I am not. But if we don’t proceed with today’s lesson, I fear I may have misplaced my faith.” Taking a deep breath, she hoped to banish lingering traces of light-headedness. “Let’s begin with introductions to the president, shall we? At least the American ceremony is less rigid than that of meeting the Queen.”
Humor continued to light his face. He slowly crossed to her position, denying her the comfort of distance. “Presentation to the old girl is hardly as demanding for men as it is for women. We don’t have to bother with the height of our white feathers or the length of our trains.”
She gasped. “You know about the rules for a presentation to the Queen?”
He had a wicked smile. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do . . .” It hadn’t been so very long ago that she had to worry about those very things. She glanced at Mr. Rafferty, unsure if he was teasing her or if he truly knew the long list of rules for a proper presentation. The only thing she could discern from his expression was that he enjoyed her astonishment. She tapped her fingers on the fireplace mantel. “I’m beginning to believe you are full of surprises, Mr. Rafferty. I’m not certain what to make of you.”
“If I understand Lord Henderson’s charge, you’re to make a very proper English gentleman out of me,” he replied, a bit of laughter evident in his voice.
Suddenly her task didn’t appear to be as difficult as she had initially imagined. “Yes,” she agreed.
He leaned close and spoke in such intimate tones that she had to concentrate to understand his thick Irish brogue. “Then you’re bound to fail, as I’m as Irish and as common as they come.”
Before she could think of a response, he turned and collected his hat from the chair.
“You’re leaving?” she asked. “We haven’t finished!”
“I believe we have for today. I’m to meet Phineas and”—he sighed, then brushed the nap of his hat—“God willing, meet my new wife.”
His chin tilted in her direction. “Your mourning attire suggests that you intend to pay a call upon your friend, Lady Cardiff. The news struck her particularly hard. I’m sure she’ll be grateful for your emotional support.”
“You’ve seen her?” Based upon his narrow participation at the diplomatic reception, she had the impression that Mr. Rafferty tended to avoid women of high station.