1810
Sylvia Heartwood hated Raphael St. Alexander with every ounce of her soul. The useless, lecherous, drunk scapegrace! Promise-breaking, sex-starved.....lecher!
Hadn't he promised her that he would waltz with her when they had seen each other in Carlisle last summer? Hadn't he promised he would look out for her in the shark-infested waters of London? But where had he been at her come-out ball? On the arm of the luscious Widow Hemming! Whose bust, might Sylvie add, had been practically falling out of her bodice?! And then, when the first waltz began, where was he? In the arms of Lady Carroway, who had wetted her skirts so that they would stick to her legs. He had not led her to dinner. He had not talked with her, save to exchange a few pleasantries. And then, once dinner had been concluded, he disappeared before the second waltz could be called.
Oh, if she never saw him again, she would be so very pleased!
He had broken her stupid, idiot heart and he didn't even know it!
Ugh! She snarled as she launched an assault on her pillow, imagining it was his stupid, gorgeous face with his idiot, sleek hair and disgustingly pretty green eyes. Her fist met the soft pillow with a muffled thud.
I hate you!
What had she expected? That he would see her in her pretty white dress, her hair done up with pearls, and fall deeply in love with her?
More fool her.
She was just a country bumpkin, unsophisticated and unpolished. The necklines of her gowns were high, her curves were nonexistent, and she was only allowed to wear pale colors like white, unlike the older women whose company Raphael enjoyed. They wore scandalously swooping necked gowns, in vibrant colors and jewelry that caught a person's eye.
All Sylvie had were the few pieces of jewelry her mother had left her, a simple gold necklace, and two sets of earrings.
Of course, he would not look at her when all those-
Plink.
Huh?
What was that?
Plink.
It was coming from the window.
Plink.
Someone was throwing small projectiles against her window. She threw the panes open and hissed, "Go away!"
"Aww, come on, Sylvie, don't be like that!"
"I said, GO AWAY!" And with that, she slammed her window shut so hard that the panes rattled.
Raphael St. Alexander suppressed a groan as he aimed another pebble at Sylvia's window hoping to coax her to open it once again. He had messed up. And not an ordinary sort of mess up, it was the royal sort of mess up; he had gone back on his word. His word to Sylvie, one of his first friends in England. More to the point, his motives for doing it were foolish and cowardly.
He had taken one look at her, dressed in the most adorable white gown, her hair adorned with pearls and promptly forgotten that other women existed. She looked so vulnerable and nervous and so goddamn beautiful that Raphael had wanted to whisk her away lest anybody else see her and realize what a treasure she was.
He had felt it again, that potential, that spark, that stirring of love and it had terrified him beyond anything. He had wanted to get it under control before he danced with her.
Why on earth had he promised her the most romantic dance to her, anyway? It was sheer idiocy on his part, he knew that he had become inconveniently attracted to her so why would he intentionally promise her the dance that would have him holding her close? His hand at her waist and hers on his shoulder?
He had wanted to touch her, simple as that. In front of bloody fucking everybody.
Which was stupid, pathetic, and entirely too dangerous.
So, in an effort to regain his wits, he had danced a few sets with other women, entirely intending to lead her to dinner but then Lady Carroway had all but plastered herself to his side. At dinner, he may have over-imbibed a little in an effort to pretend he did not notice Lady Carroway's hands caressing his thighs; which on a given day would have been a very welcome flirtation. That day, however, his body had not been remotely interested. No, his body had been craning to devour Sylvie by sight even as she pointedly never looked in his direction. His ear straining to catch whatever conversation she was having with her dinner partners. He imbibed a little more after that in order to calm his nerves.
Nerves! For Sylvia Heartwood!
Preposterous.
After that, he may or may not have gotten a little sotted and allowed his friends to drag him off to their clubs for some games. By the time he had realized that he hadn't danced with Sylvie, he'd been so sotted he couldn't take one step without falling down. When he finally was sober, the sun was rising over the buildings of London and the ball was drawing to a close.
Ah, my poor girl, open the window and let me apologize, will you?
"Sylvie!" He hissed flinging a stone so hard that the glass of her window made a TWANG! Instead of a plink.
The widow was thrown open and a furious, glorious elven queen glared down at him, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. Rafe sucked in a shocked breath at the sheer visceral reaction of his body to the sight of her.
How was it possible that he had never seen her hair before?
So absorbed in his shock was he that he almost missed it when she raised her hand and flung something directly at him. He ducked just in time for the small piece of ceramic decoration to fly over his head.
"Go. Away." She hissed once again and reached to close the window.
Ah, desperate times called for desperate measures.
"I'm leaving Cambridge," he announced and watched her freeze, her eyes going wide. "And England."
"What?" She gasped, her face bleaching. "Why? Wait, I'm coming down. Close your eyes."
He watched in horror as she swung a leg over the edge of the window, giving him a healthy look at her lovely, endless, bare legs.
"Don't you dare," he warned her before she could swing the other leg over. "I'm coming up there."
"You can't come to my room!" She gasped, scandalized. "We could be caught and it would be a swift trip to the altar for the both of us!"
"And you coming out here in only your night rail is a better alternative?"
She pursed her lips, still giving him full view of her calves, as if it didn't even cross her mind to be bashful in front of him. As if he weren't a red-blooded man who might enjoy the sight of an attractive woman's bare legs.
He scowled as he jumped and grabbed the branch of a nearby tree, scaling it until he could grab onto the windowsill. In a fluid motion, he propelled himself into her room. Good to know his skills gained by sneaking into windows of married women were coming in handy elsewhere.
"Well," she eyed him haughtily. "I imagine that is a recently cultivated talent."
"Jealous, Sylvie?" He whispered as he closed the window behind him and turned to face her. Why was his heart beating a strange rhythm was anyone's guess.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped at him giving him her back. "Now, why are you leaving? Where are you going?"
"I'm off to war."
That had her whirling around to face him. "What?"
Have your attention now, don't I?
"As an attaché with the embassy in Belgium,"
"Oh," she deflated, her eyes a little glassy. "You won't be in any danger, then?"
"Of course not," he replied easily for it had been the truth at the time. It was only later that he would learn how dangerous his work would actually be and he would look back and laugh at what an arrogant fool he used to be.
"You will be careful?"
"There's nothing to worry about, the most exciting thing that is going to happen to me is a boatload of paperwork and translations."
"When do you leave?"
"Next month," he pushed her spectacles up her nose. "Still angry?"
"Of course, I'm still angry with you! I waited and waited for you to ask me to dance-"
"I know, I was going to-"
"And I felt like such a fool for thinking you would even spare me the time of day. I know I'm not sophisticated or elegant or beautiful like the ladies in London-"
"Sylvie-"
"But you shouldn't have promised me that you would if you're embarrassed of me! You shouldn't have convinced me that you thought I was worthwhile if you were going to act like we were strangers!" She finished, backing away from him but he halted her retreated by grabbing her arms and pulling her into him.
"May I speak now?" He asked pointedly as he raised his hands to cup her face, stroking his thumbs across her cheeks which heated under his caress. Something primal in him preened as her gaze dipped to his mouth and her breathing turned a little ragged.
"No, I am not speaking to you!"
"You are, though."
"Only to express my displeasure. From this day forth, I shall hate you forever!" She protested weakly.
"Sylvie, don't hate me, please. I was so very, very stupid. I never meant to hurt your feelings," he brushed his lips across her cheek and felt her shudder beneath him. "I was not embarrassed to be seen with you. I thought you looked beautiful."
"I don't believe you," her voice wobbled and a tear slid down her cheek that Raphael caught with his thumb.
Ah, Christ. If she cried because of him he would not be able to bear it.
"It's true. You very nearly took my breath away, Sylvie."
"Please, don't exaggerate. If you thought all that then you wouldn't have snubbed me."
"It was not my intention, Sylvie," he rested his brow against hers, "I have no good excuse save for the fact that I imbibed far more than I should have. I am sorry that I let you down, please let me make up for it?"
"I don't like who you are in London," she whispered to him and he tamped town an irritated retort. He was here to apologize, not get into another argument. "You hurt me, Raphael."
Remorse and tenderness flooded him in equal measures.
"I never wanted that. I would never hurt you intentionally, Sylvie. Never. Do you believe me?"
"I- yes. I do."
"Good," he smiled and stepped away from her. He took a graceful bow in front of her and extended his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Heartwood?"
"What? There's no music," she stared at him baffled, but she placed her hand in his and performed a curtsy anyway.
"You let me worry about that," Raphael winked at her and drew her close, her hand on his shoulder and his at her waist. The heat of her skin against his palm reminded him that she was clad only in a thin night rail. There was one flimsy piece of cotton separating him from touching the naked skin of her hips and back.
Jesus.
He had really not factored in the fact that his lust might roar to life with her in his arms. He had not counted on the fact that the stirring might rise once again, stronger than ever. He took a second to calm himself and crush that stirring of sentiment and then began humming a song, timing his steps to a waltz, trying his best to ignore the fact that there was a bed not five feet away.
A bed where he could lay her down, drag that night rail inch by inch up her endless legs, and then fit their bodies together until they were both well-satiated.
He stumbled, catching his balance as she chuckled in amusement. The moonlight streamed in from the open window, bathing her in a silver glow, making her more ethereal than she already was. She was smiling up at him with such guilelessness that his heart started to dance inside his chest. It was developing a stupid habit of doing that whenever she was around.
"I think the ruby earring suits you the best," she said conversationally, fingering the jewel dangling from his ear, sending shivers of mad pleasure up his spine. "You know, I think your pirate appearance has grown on me somewhat. It certainly creates an impression."
"It suits my coloring," he agreed, his throat dry as he pulled her into a swift turn, making her giggle in delight. "Shhhh. You don't want us to get caught, do you? My, Sylvie, how forward of you. You can just ask me to marry you."
When in doubt, go back to teasing.
"Oh, stop it, you oaf," she rolled her eyes. "I pity the woman who had to marry a lecher such as you."
He laughed at the snark, but her sharp tongue was a much more welcome sight than her disappointment. He let her around one final turn, finishing the dance with a flourish and bowing deeply before her once more.
"I do declare, Miss Heartwood, that you are an exceptional dancer."
"I must say the same for you, my Lord Carlisle. It had been my pleasure," She smiled at him softly as she leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. "I will miss you."
He scrambled for something witty to say. Something to dismiss the way pleasure streaked through him, something to disregard the effect her words had on him. And yet, in the moment, nothing but honesty would do.
"I will miss you too, Sylvie."
"Take care of yourself."
"I'm not gone just yet," he squeezed her hand. "I'll be in London until I leave, and I will claim all your waltzes, Miss Heartwood. And I mean it this time."
And true to his word, Sylvia danced one waltz with Lord Carlisle whenever they were at the same gathering. So much so that the gossip rags began to suspect that an engagement was imminent.
And while it was true that Miss Sylvia Heartwood did become the Viscountess of Carlisle, it would not happen for many, many, many years yet.