“You’ve made certain?” She searched his countenance. “How?”
“I whipped his lily-white arse until he was bleeding and sobbing like a babe.”
She blinked, certain he was jesting. But Rafe Sutton’s expression remained solemn and imperturbable. “You…whipped him?”
Surely he knew he could be arrested for daring to strike the son of an earl.
“He deserved it.” Half his mouth pulled up in a small grin that was sadly bereft of dimples.
“Something serious could befall you for doing so, Mr. Sutton.”
“Eh.” He waved a hand in dismissive fashion, as if he were chasing an irritating fly. “No need to worry on my account. I made certain the buffle-headed scoundrel hasn’t a bloody inkling who gave him the drubbing. All ’e knows is why.”
A rush of emotion swept over her, so overwhelming that her eyes began to sting with the precursor to tears. The knowledge he had done violence to Lord Gregson left her reeling with shock and a stirring sense of justice having been done.
But what to say in such a moment? It had been plain to Persephone, from the moment she had first met him, that Rafe Sutton was not the sort of gentleman who ordinarily graced Mayfair drawing rooms. His admission, however, was confirmation. He had whipped Lord Gregson.
Rafe’s words echoed in her mind.
He deserved it.
Yes. He had deserved it. But no one had ever taken such a stand for her before. She’d never had a champion. All her life, she had been at the mercy of others. She blinked as her vision blurred with tears. They trickled down her cheeks, unstoppable.
“Ah Christ, lovely.” Rafe extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed at her cheeks. “No need to cry over the fate of such a piece of shite.”
His gesture, so tender and unexpected, and in complete disparity to the viciousness of the act he had perpetuated upon the viscount, made her tears flow anew.
She sniffed but held herself still, accepting his ministrations. “I am not weeping over Lord Gregson.”
A frown creased his brow. “Why, then?”
“Because no one has ever championed me.” The admission was humiliating.
A woman grown, four-and-twenty years of age, and not one soul had ever cared about what had become of her. Aside from when she had run away from Cousin Bartholomew, she did not expect he had ever given her much consideration. And before that…well, she had no memories of her mother or father.
“Bleeding hell,” Rafe swore. “Then you’ve never known anyone who deserved to know you.”
The most ridiculous urge to throw her arms about him rose within her. To hold him tight, breathe in his scent and bask in his nearness. But how strange, when she had never embraced another in her life, aside from her charges. And oh, what a blessing the exuberant hugs of Anne and Elizabeth were. Although not the same.
Not a man’s embrace.
Not Rafe Sutton’s arms circling her waist.
Would he embrace her in return?
“Thank you,” she said, and then she gave in to the desire.
One step was all it took. One step, and she was pressed against him from breast to hip. Her movement was so sudden and awkward, she nearly upset their balances and sent the both of them crashing to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the soft linen of his simply tied cravat. He held her against him, and unless she was mistaken, he pressed his nose to her crown. She inhaled deeply, wanting to commit the scent of him to memory. To remember always the warmth and vitality he exuded. To preserve this moment so that she could return to it in her mind and be newly astounded by the rush of feeling.
“You needn’t thank me, lovely,” he rasped.
Lovely, he had called her for the second time. She could not lie—she liked the way it sounded in his deep, smoky baritone, with his accent that was not quite proper, just a bit raw and rough and…real. Just him.
And then the sweetest gesture of all—his lips pressed to her part. He had kissed her. Rafe Sutton, East End charmer, had sought vengeance against Lord Gregson for her, and then he had dried her tears, held her in his arms, and kissed her. Not on her lips, where others had forced kisses she had not wanted in the past. But in that previously unconsidered place, the top of her head.
He was a complex and mysterious man, and she knew in that moment that if there was anything she must do when in his presence, it was to guard her heart. Rafe Sutton was the sort of goodhearted rogue a woman could fall in love with. And she very much could not afford such a folly.
One moment more, Persephone.