No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(122)

Ewan stared at Miss Fournay across the green park. His pale blue eyes were so intense, Rafe wondered that the lady did not turn and look back. “I asked you to help me, not scare her away.”

“She looks lonely.”

Rafe’s brows shot up. “Does she?” He glanced at her again. She smiled often enough, but Ewan was right. The smile did not meet her eyes.

“She’s in a foreign country surrounded by strangers. She needs a friend, a confidant.”

“Yes! That’s what I have been trying to do. Become her confidant.”

“No, you have been trying to get under her skirts and wondering why she doesn’t respond. You have to give her something to receive something in return.”

“Say again.”

“It’s like fighting.”

“No, it’s not.”

Ewan ignored him. “When you and an opponent are equally matched, let him land a punch.”

“No, thank you. I prefer my face free of bruises.”

“Let him land several blows. Then, when he’s feeling confident, when he thinks he has you beaten, you pummel the hell out of him.”

Rafe stared at Ewan a long time. Ewan started moving away again. “You can thank me later.”

“Not likely!” Rafe called after him.

He let out a sigh and began to follow, quite slowly, the progress of Miss Fournay and her chaperone. Give her something. Let the opponent land a punch. “Then pummel the hell out of him,” he muttered.

Was pummel a metaphor?

Was he really trying to read something into Ewan’s words?

Not that he had any better ideas.

Miss Fournay was lonely. Rafe would give her something without asking for anything in return. He’d give her friendship. He’d take her around London, call on her, and…and whatever else friends did. Then when she trusted him, when she counted him as her friend, he’d take advantage of that trust and pry the information he needed out of her.

Rafe frowned. And some men accused him of being manipulative. Ewan’s methods were cold indeed. But with his country at risk, Rafe couldn’t afford scruples.

“Mr. Beaumont?”

Rafe looked up. He’d been so lost in thought, he’d practically run into Miss Fournay and her chaperone. Lady Ravensgate looked at him quizzically, while her charge pretended he did not exist. “Lady Ravensgate.” He bowed. “Miss Fournay. What a pleasure to encounter you both here.”

Miss Fournay snorted and looked away. She was decidedly unfriendly.

“The pleasure is all ours,” Lady Ravensgate said. “How is your ankle? Should you really be walking on it?”

“My ankle?” He glanced at Lady Ravensgate, then Miss Fournay, in confusion.

Miss Fournay rolled her eyes. “You sprained it at Lord Montjoy’s ball, monsieur. You had to leave early.”

“Yes. I did. I sprained it.” He lifted one foot as though his weight on it pained him.

“It was the other ankle, monsieur.”

Miss Fournay had a smug look on her face. Rafe wanted it gone. “Imagine that. They both feel as good as new.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Lady Ravensgate moved toward a bench and sat, arranging her skirts carefully. “I tire easily these days.”

“Shall I sit with you and keep you company?” Rafe asked.

“No, no. You two young people continue to stroll. I will wait here for you.”

“But I can’t leave you!” Miss Fournay protested.

“Oh, I am tired, not dying. Go ahead.”

Miss Fournay opened her mouth, obviously struggling to think of another excuse to avoid his presence. Rafe didn’t give her the opportunity. He offered his arm, and she had little choice but to take it. “I will bring her back shortly, my lady. I promise she will have no better friend than me.”

When they had walked a little distance, Rafe commenting on the trees and the sky and the weather, they finally paused near a small pond, where ducks swam. The pond was somewhat sheltered from view by the low-hanging branches of trees, and Miss Fournay snatched her arm away immediately.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he told her.

“About the summer breeze or the oak trees?”

“About being your friend. I’d like to be your friend.”

She glared at him, her dark eyes wide and full of fire. “My English may not be as good as yours, monsieur, but even I know friend is what men often use to refer to their paramours.”

“Actually, the term is usually special friend, and that is not what I had in mind at all.”

“I am not that na?ve.”

“Good. Then you will understand that there are times when men and women might simply be friends.”

She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “And why would you want to be my friend? Have you no friends of your own?”

He had plenty of friends of his own, but his popularity was not the issue. “I don’t have any women friends, and Montjoy’s ball showed to me that a woman friend, like you, might prove valuable.”

“How so?”

“If I am walking in the park with you or dancing with you or speaking with you, I am safe from other women.”

“Safe?”

“Yes, safe. You think I enjoy constant pursuit?”