Page 3 of Dare to Risk it All

Raphe returned a wry smile. “I know just how you feel. He said he’ll wash his hands of me next time and he’s been very good to me over the years. I won’t repay him by making an even bigger mess. I’ll not let him down again, or you.”

He grimaced, ridiculously uncomfortable with the conversation, but Dare only strode over and clapped him on the back.

“We’ve all got our demons, Raphe. Gifts from our estimable parents. You’ve got to fight them, is all. Took me a while to realise what I needed, but then Elspeth was there and… everything became clear.”

With a huff of laughter, Raphe strode out of the cottage with Dare at his heels.

“Well, you may have needed the love of a good woman to turn your life around. All I need is a bit of peace and—” He turned and stared up at the tumble-down cottage. “—a challenge.”

Later that day, filthy and exhausted, Raphe and Dare made their way back to the vast, sprawling estate that was Rowsley Hall for a well-earned wash and some dinner. Raphe’s stomach was already protesting vociferously. It relieved his mind to note that his desire to lose himself in the nearest bottle of brandy was no longer the God-awful temptation it had been. The last three months of sobriety and hard work had changed him inwardly as well as out. He was calmer and less likely to fly off in a temper; he had gained weight, and muscle, and he no longer looked like a three-day-old cadaver. An improvement, that.

As they approached the hall, Elspeth appeared, waving at them. Dare grinned and yelled a greeting, making his wife smile. Raphe squashed a surge of irritation. He did not like Elspeth around. Seeing her and Dare together made him uncomfortable and unaccountably annoyed, though he could not understand why. She was a pleasant young woman, and she had been very kind to him. She’d been a great deal more patient and understanding than he deserved. Most women would have been screaming at their spouses to have him out of the house months ago, but she had never reproached him.

As they got closer, Raphe realised she was looking at him.

“You have guests,” she said, her green eyes alight with amusement.

“Guests?” he repeated, wondering who the hell was visiting him. Only his friends knew he was here. Bainbridge lived just up the road and August was away dealing with the aggravating females in his family. Lord and Lady Rothborn, perhaps?

“Come along,” Elspeth said, leading him into the building.

“I can’t greet guests like this,” he said, gesturing to his dust-covered person.

“I don’t think these will mind,” she said as they reached the comfortable parlour where she had left whoever wanted to see him.

Raphe frowned as she opened the door and then gaped in astonishment as he caught sight of his stepbrothers.

“Sylvester!” Raphe exclaimed, hurrying into the room. “Oliver! What the devil are you doing here? Is anything wrong?”

“Yes, of course, the only reason we’d wish to see you was if something was wrong,” Sylvester said wryly.

Ignoring Raphe’s bewilderment, he gave him a hearty hug, slapping his shoulder and laughing as Raphe stared at them both. At twenty-six, Sylvester was only two years younger than Raphe. The two took after their mother, with hair of dark gold and light hazel eyes. They were handsome boys and—though they had dressed with care, everything clean and neatly pressed—Raphe could see their attire was not what it ought to be. The cuffs of Sylvester’s shirt looked worn, and poor Oliver’s coat was rather too small for him. Guilt punched him hard in the gut.

“It’s been ages,” Oliver grumbled. “We thought you were dead.”

Though Raphe could tell the boy was joking, he heard the reproach in the words with a bell-like clarity. They had feared for him, and with good reason. He had never been in touch with them. All his brothers could possibly have learned of his existence would have been gleaned from the scandal sheets that he so often starred in, for all the worst reasons. Raphe let out a breath, discomfited by the strange ache in his chest. Oliver looked so different from the last time Raphe had seen him. He could only gape at the brother he’d always thought of as a child. He must have sprouted at least four inches since their last meeting, and was clearly no longer a little boy. When had Raphe seen him last? Six months—no—a year or more! Christ, sixteen, Raphe realised as he did a quick calculation. Oliver was sixteen! How the hell had so much time passed?

“You’ve grown,” Raphe observed, a peculiar sensation tightening his throat.

Sylvester snorted. “He won’t bloody stop, the weed. At this rate, he’ll be taller than us both, and Mother already can’t find clothes to fit him before he’s outgrown the damn things.”

A familiar, prickling sense of resentment crawled down Raphe’s spine, but he remembered his manners and his promise to Rothborn. “How is Blanche?”

“A pain in my neck,” Oliver muttered, gaining himself a clip round the ear from Sylvester.

“Mind your tongue, cub,” Sylvester reprimanded him, though his tone was mild. “And I can’t say he’s wrong, to be fair.”

Raphe gave them a sympathetic smile, knowing all too well how trying their darling mama could be. “I’m sorry to hear it, but tell me, why are you here in Derbyshire?”

“Well, Mother has her sisters staying with her for Christmas—”

“And we simply cannot stand it,” Oliver piped up, earning himself another dark look from Sylvester, who tried again.

“So, we’ve—”

“Come to stay with you instead!” Oliver finished with a bright grin.

Raphe’s mouth fell open. “B-But you can’t,” he said, wishing that they could, that there was something he could do to give them a better Christmas than they’d have with their blasted mother. Memories of Christmases past, when his father was alive, sprang to mind unbidden, and he forced them back into the locked box where he kept such things. “I wish things were different truly, but I am only a guest here and—”