Wolfstan let out ashaky breath. He had not expected this turn of events. He certainly hadn’t thought his day would include kissing Rebecca. She sent him a final glower before she entered the drawing room. He did not regret it either.
He had done what he had only ever dreamed of doing in secret; he had claimed Rebecca Flowerdy’s soft, plump lips. Lord, but she tasted like honey. Like berries. A sweetness that ought not to exist on this earth but somewhere between the moon and the stars. He never wanted that flavor gone from his mouth.
Saints preserve him. He had kissed himself into a daze. Into a blazing fury.
Did you expect any less?
Good question. For one, he had not expected to gaze into clear pools of emotion flashing with anger. He had expected her to be moved, dreamy, even bedazzled by his kiss. Naturally, it had been too much of a stretch to hope she would link her arms around his neck and demand him to carry her to her bedchamber.
Dammit.
He had blown what was always supposed to be a magical moment.
He could not blame her anger. Never had Wolfstan acted this out of character before. But with Langley’s untimely arrival, the stakes had never been higher to win Rebecca’s heart. He had to use every tool in his arsenal or forever hold his peace.
Peace be damned.
He would wait for his heart to steady before he followed her to the drawing room. Then he would drag Langley back to Willoughby Castle where he belonged. Georgiana, Langley’s sister, had married Nathan Burton, the Countess of Stapleton’s grand-nephew, and Langley, unlike Wolfstan, was expected to be present.
Wolfstan straightened his back. Yes, that was what he would do. Wind and snow be damned, he thought as a heavy current shrilled in the distance.
He smoothed his jacket as his resolve set, his hand skimming over the journal in his pocket. Ah, yes, he suddenly recalled the notebook he had scooped up from the forest bed. Rebecca’s notebook. One he really ought to have returned the moment he had spotted it.
Curiosity had held him back, however. The rare chance to glimpse the inner workings of Rebecca Flowerdy’s mind. He’d be a fool to pass on such an opportunity. He would be a fool to pry.
Wolfstan pried.
A daring move and a gross invasion of Rebecca’s privacy but he was done playing fair. He fished the book from his pocket and snapped it open, his eyes poring over the pages.
And promptly wished he hadn’t.
Everlasting hell.
That was where the content hurled him. Hell.
Rebecca had created an entire life with his cousin in sketches. Disbelief held him immobile. There was a sketch of her dancing with Langley in a field of flowers and tall grass. A sketch of her and Langley reading a book under a tree. A sketch of them racing their horses in an open clearing.
He flicked through the pages with a scowl. Her fixation with his cousin hadn’t passed as he had hoped. And he still believed her feelings no more than infatuation. He could count on the fingers of his one hand the times those two had spent in each other’s company.
Nonetheless, poring through the pages of the book, Wolfstan lost a touch of his confidence. Langley and Rebecca had never danced, Wolfstan was sure. Rebecca did not dance. He turned to a page of her and Langley playing whist in a library surrounded by books. A cozy bloody scene.
Wolfstan’s lip curled.
Had he been a stranger staring down at the drawings, he’d have thought it some sort of memoir of a loving couple’s life. There was just one picture that did not fit the mold, one of a woman—Rebecca?—standing over a man outside a tavern while pointing a finger at him.
An envelope slid from between the pages.
Wolfstan’s brows drew together as he reached to collect the letter from the floor. Rebecca’s name was scrawled in a bold, unquestionably male hand. Sealed, he noted.
Wolfstan tore the last sketch, a half-finished drawing, from the book and pocketed both items. He had snooped enough, though curiosity blazed anew. Who was writing to Rebecca? Not Langley, for he would have recognized his cousin’s hand. Another man. A suitor?
He snorted, striding to the drawing room. A sense of renewed purpose ignited his belly. The poor sot, whoever he was, would have to get in line.
He wanted to be the one in that damn sketchbook, and even if he did not stand a chance, even if she ultimately rebuked his efforts, Wolfstan would be damned if he lost this fight without giving it his all.
He joined the trio in the drawing room, his gaze flicking over Rebecca’s stony features. She refused to look at him.
“There you are,” Caroline exclaimed when he entered. “We were beginning to wonder where you had roamed off to.”
