Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (14 page)

She could do anything in this moment. She felt like a—

“A goddess,” he murmured.

Dear Lord. Forget sentences. He was finishing her thoughts now.

“You’re sculpted just like a Grecian goddess.” His gaze pulled up to catch hers. “And the hell of it is, your body’s only the third most attractive thing about you. Right after your clever mind and your lovely heart.”

If he meant to admire her heart, he had better do it quickly. Because she suspected the organ was going to give out at any moment. Her “clever mind” was already a bowl of blancmange.

“If you were mine to hold and pleasure, I’d . . .”

She sucked in her breath. “You would what?”

He leaned forward, and his voice was dark. “Take you in my arms, at first. Hold your heart close to mine and try to let that be enough. But it wouldn’t be enough. I’d start to want more. I’d want to make
you
want more.”

Oh, she already wanted more. Clio reclined against the bedpost to steady herself.

Don’
t stop. Please, go on.

“I’d take down this lovely hair and let it fall through my fingers. I’d run my hands over your arms, your back. And all your tender, softest parts . . . that’s where I’d use my mouth. And then . . .” He bent his head, until his words scalded her ear. “And then I’d slide my hand beneath your shift and touch you. Right where we both want it most.”

The room blurred in her vision. A dull, aching pulse began to throb between her thighs.

“Do it,” he said, releasing one of her hands. “Do it for me.”

She startled, but his free hand went to her waist, holding her still.

“There’s no one,” he said. “No one will know. No one will see. Do what I can’t. Just this once.”

Her heart climbed into her throat. She didn’t know if she could do that. Not like this. Not in front of him.

His temple pressed to hers. “Christ, Clio. I think I’ll die of wanting you. If there’s any chance you feel it, too . . . Let me know I’m not alone.”

This was madness.

But she did want this. And she never wanted him to feel alone.

With trembling fingers, she twisted her petticoat until she could loosen the fastenings—just a touch—and slide her hand inside. The fabric of her chemise still came between her fingertips and her belly, but it was so thin as to be inconsequential.

As she swept her touch lower, she bit her lip.

“Yes, that’s it,” he murmured. “Yes. That’s where you want it, isn’t it? And where I want it, too. You’re so lovely there. Lovely and pink and warm.”

She nodded.

“And wet. You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

Clio’s pulse raced at the crudeness of his words, but she couldn’t deny the truth. As she pushed her fingers between her thighs, the linen softened and grew damp.

“Here,” he said.

Where his hand covered hers on the bedpost, he drew one fingertip between her second and third fingers, slowly tracing the seam as if he were parting her legs. Or the folds of her sex.

Then his touch settled right in the sensitive crook where they joined.

“Touch yourself here,” he whispered, moving his fingertip in tight, steady circles that she felt everywhere. “Just like this.”

She was beyond any sense of shame or propriety, and his words had caught her in some sort of trance.

When her fingers slid into just the right place, her breath caught in a startled gasp.

“That’s it.” He kissed her ear. “That’s a good girl.”

The words made her smile. For once, she wasn’t being a good girl. She was being a wicked, wicked thing, and she loved it.

He loved it, too.

The edge of his restraint seemed to be fraying. He traced the shape of her ear with his tongue, then nibbled on her earlobe. Her senses hummed when he gave a husky groan.

And then his hand—the one that had settled on her waist—began to move. Just a little, at first. His thumb stroked back and forth in a coaxing arc. And then his entire hand began to sweep up and down in a gentle caress. With every pass, his fingertips brushed a bit lower on her hip, and his thumb grazed a fraction closer to the underside of her breast.

Please.

She wanted to encourage him somehow, but she was afraid to say or do anything too bold, for fear he might stop altogether.

There was a border they were fast approaching. A point of no return.

At last—with a muttered oath, he tipped them over the edge. His hand slid upward, cupping her breast. When his thumb found her nipple, she went faint with pleasure and relief.

“Come.” His whisper was hot and rough. He ran his tongue down her neck. He lifted and shaped her breast through the softened linen, rolling her nipple under the pad of his thumb. “If it damns my soul, I need to hear you come. And I want it to be for me.”

She touched herself, and he touched her, and the bliss gathered and built, until it loomed before her like a devastating wave.

She trembled. “Rafe . . .”

“I’m here. I have you. Just let it happen.”

His mouth captured hers, giving her the shelter she needed. When the bliss crashed through her, she moaned and sobbed and sighed it all into his kiss. Where she was safe.

And long after it was over, he kissed her still. So sweetly.

He released her arm from the bedpost, and they held each other close. She sifted her fingers through his hair. He touched her cheek. So lightly, using only the backs of his fingers.

It was the closest she’d ever felt to being treasured.

But the look on his face when he broke their kiss . . . Oh, it was like a dagger to her heart. Guilt etched furrows on his brow, and the green of his eyes was the shade of regret. As if he’d robbed her of something, instead of giving her the most beautiful, sensual experience of her life.

“Rafe, that was—”

“Clio, we can’t—”

“Miss Whitmore?” A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Whitmore, did you need help with your gown?”

Anna.

“Drat drat drat,” she muttered.

Rafe’s choice of words was decidedly less genteel.

“Just a moment,” Clio called out. She shimmied, then stepped out of the pool of gown and petticoats at her feet. She took Rafe by the hand. “Quickly. This way.”

He resisted. “You can’t mean to hide me. I’m too big. I won’t fit in the wardrobe or behind the drapes.”

“You’ll fit here.” She found a little notch in the paneled wall and slid it open. “This way. Hurry.”

He stepped into the secret room, looking around its single slice of window and kneeling bench. “What is this?”

“It’s an oratory. A private chapel for the mistress of the house to withdraw and reflect.” She nodded at the other side. “There’s a similar door that leads into my sitting room.”

“You’d never know it was even here.” He tilted his head to admire the ceiling. “This castle truly is something.”

“I told you as much.” Smiling, she moved to slide the panel shut.

“Wait.” He put his hand in the gap, holding the panel open. “So are you, Clio. You’re truly something. Never doubt it.”

He withdrew his hand, and the door slid shut.

Chapter Fourteen

W
e must discuss the ice sculptures,” Daphne said later that evening.

“Must we?”

The three Whitmore sisters had gathered in Clio’s sitting room to dress for dinner. Just like the times when they were younger. Phoebe sat at the dressing table while Clio brushed out her hair. Daphne lay on her side, draped across Clio’s bed. With one hand, she flipped the pages of a ladies’ magazine, and with the other she plucked raspberries from a bowl.

Despite Phoebe’s trouble in the village and Daphne’s insulting trick with the too-small gowns, Clio needed her sisters close this evening. She couldn’t explain it except to think that sometimes the devil you knew was easier to face than the devil who’d pressed you to a bedpost and rolled your nipple under his thumb.

“I was thinking perhaps a sculpted pair of famous lovers,” Daphne suggested. “What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“That ended badly,” Phoebe said. “One poisoned, one died by dagger.”

“Cleopatra and Marc Antony?”

“Even worse. One snakebite, one sword.”

“Lancelot and Guinevere, then.”

“He died a hermit. She became a nun.”

Daphne sighed, exasperated. “You ruin everything.”

“So I’m beginning to understand.” Phoebe handed Clio a hairpin. “But this time, it’s not my fault. Forbidden love affairs never turn out well in stories.”

Clio held her tongue as she twisted her sister’s dark hair into a simple chignon.

Phoebe was right. Nothing good would come of this . . . this whatever it was between her and Rafe. She couldn’t precisely call it a love affair. The word love had never been uttered, and they hadn’t done anything so irreversible that it couldn’t be brushed aside.

But she didn’t want to brush it aside.

She wanted to clutch it tight and never let go. The way he’d held her so tenderly . . . The security and exhilaration she felt in his embrace . . . She wanted that. She wanted
more.
She wanted him to be thinking about her just as often as she thought about him.

Which was, to estimate it roughly, with each and every breath.

He had to sign those papers, without delay. He simply
must.
To ease her conscience, if nothing else. Piers might not have treated her with any particular tenderness, and perhaps their engagement was a mere formality—but it had to be wrong to drop your frock for one man while still officially betrothed to another.

“If you want famous lovers, there’s always Ulysses and Penelope,” Phoebe suggested. “She stayed faithful for twenty years while her husband traveled the world to return to her.”

“Swans,” Clio blurted out, desperate to change the subject from long-suffering, faithful women. “Aren’t these ice sculptures usually swans?”

“Yes, but
everyone
has swans,” Daphne said. “They’re supposed to be romantic because they mate for life.”

In the mirrored reflection, Phoebe arched one slender eyebrow. “So do vultures, wolves, and African termites. I haven’t seen any ice sculptures of them.”

Clio was about to remark that a termite mound sounded like just the thing, but there was a knock at the bedchamber door.

Anna entered, carrying an envelope. “A message has arrived for you, Miss Whitmore. The bearer is downstairs waiting for your reply.”

“At this hour? How mysterious.” She broke the seal and opened the letter. “It’s an invitation.”

And a welcome change of subject. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

Clio scanned the paper. “We’re invited to a ball. Tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” Daphne asked.

“Apparently Lord and Lady Pennington are in residence at their estate near Tunbridge Wells. They apologize for the short notice, but they only just learned we were in Kent.” She lowered the paper. “Well?”

“We must accept.” Daphne perked with excitement. “I haven’t been to nearly enough balls as a married lady.”

“Excellent. Then you and Teddy can go. I’ll stay home with Phoebe.”

“Clio, you must come, too. There will be gossip if you don’t.”

“There will be gossip if I
do
attend,” she said, moving to the escritoire. “That’s what I’m keen to avoid.”

“Yes, but this time it will be different,” Daphne said. “We can tell everyone about the wedding plans. Then they’ll know it’s really happening this time.”

Except that it isn’t.

“What about Phoebe?” she asked.

“Let her come, as well. It’s only a small country affair. She won’t dance, of course.”

“I don’t wish to go,” Phoebe said. “I’d be bored and out of place.”

“Yes, but that’s why you should come,” Daphne said. “So you start learning how to conceal it.”

Clio arrowed a glance at her sister. Not that it did much good.

“She’s sixteen years old,” Daphne said. “She needs some exposure to society.”

Even if she expressed it poorly, Clio knew her sister had a point. Sooner or later, Phoebe would have to develop the skill of interacting with people outside their family.

“I don’t want to go,” Phoebe said, turning on the dressing-table bench. “It would be a miserable ordeal. Don’t make me.”

“Oh, kitten. Daphne has the right of it. You will need to start moving in society soon, and a small, friendly ball is a good place to begin.” She tapped the envelope. “I won’t force you, but I hope you’ll choose to attend.”

Phoebe considered. “Is Lord Rafe attending? I’ll go if he does.”

“No,” Daphne objected. “He can’t. Montague would be fine. But we can’t have Rafe. Surely the Penningtons didn’t mean to include
him.
”

Clio bristled at her sister’s words. “The invitation is extended to me and my guests. He’s one of my guests.”

“Yes, but they didn’t know he’s here. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited us at all. Don’t suggest it, Clio. You were kind enough to allow him to stay here at the castle. He’s Granville’s brother; you haven’t a choice. But he’s not welcome in polite society anymore.”

An emotion flared in Clio’s breast, hot and volatile. She wanted to gather up Daphne’s casual disdain, shape it into a tiny ball, and give it a solid whack with a tennis racket.

It was ridiculous, the idea that a champion prizefighter could possibly need her to defend him. He probably wouldn’t care to attend the ball anyhow.

But it shouldn’t be up to Daphne—or anyone else—to shut him out.

You’re truly something,
he told her.
Never doubt it.

Rafe shouldn’t doubt it, either.

“Lord Rafe Brandon,” she said, “is always welcome where I’m concerned.” Clio checked her hair in the mirror and smoothed the front of her gray silk. “If he wishes to join us, that is.”

And with that, she left the room to search out Rafe and ask.

“Still no ring?” Rafe asked the question without breaking stride.

“Still . . . no . . . ring,” Bruiser replied. Unlike Rafe, he was breathless. “Can’t we slow down a touch?”

“No.”

They’d already completed four laps of the castle wall’s perimeter. It wasn’t nearly enough. Rafe still felt her softness clinging to his fingertips. He still tasted her on his lips. He still heard her soft moans and sighs echoing in his ears.

At this rate, he would be running hard all night. Even then, he’d never run far enough to leave his guilt behind.

What he’d done with Clio this afternoon had been so wrong.

It had also been beautiful, tender, and sublime.

But wrong, nonetheless. And entirely his fault.

Over the years, he’d learned to rein in his impulses, pull his punches. But when she’d let that lacy frock slide down her body, revealing the thinnest linen shift the Devil could weave . . . Inviting—nay,
pleading
for his touch . . .

He shouldn’t have given in to the temptation.

Miss Lydia Fairchild had taught him that lesson in his youth. The chestnut-haired daughter of a gentleman farmer, she’d pulled Rafe into the orchard one spring afternoon and drawn his hand beneath her skirts. His first touch of pure woman. He’d been overwhelmed by her warmth, her willingness. The way her hair smelled of apple blossoms.

Most of all, how she’d
wanted
his touch, at a time when he’d felt unwanted everywhere.

After an hour or so of enthusiastic groping, Rafe had managed a weak, guilt-inspired offer to speak with her father. In response, she’d laid her fingers to his cheek and laughed. Her parents had arranged a match with a country squire some twenty years her senior. She only wanted a few thrills with the local hellion first.

She wasn’t the last, either. Over the years, women had come to him for all sorts of reasons—pleasure, curiosity, rebellion, escape—but love and marriage weren’t among them.

Just as well, he’d told himself. He had too much devilry in him. If he wanted to keep his mind sharp, Rafe needed to be in constant motion. Staying in one place made him restless, prone to rash mistakes. He was incapable of settling down.

But that didn’t keep him from envying men who did. And wanting something more than a quick, hard . . .

Well, just wanting something
more.

When he reached the corner, he paused and jogged in place, waiting for Bruiser to catch up.

“You need to order more gowns,” Rafe said. “Better ones. Ones that fit.”

His trainer leaned over, clutching his side and making a pained face. “I already did. But it will take a few days.”

Damn it, he didn’t have a few days.

Rafe boxed the waning afternoon, throwing jab after jab at the sinking sun. As if he could punch the orange disc hard enough to drive it into the sky, and it would stick there—just like the tankard embedded in that plaster wall. Then this day would go on forever, and he wouldn’t have to face the promises he’d made.

“There has to be something else,” he said. “Something we haven’t tried.”

“We’ve been through it all.” Bruiser threw out an arm and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. “Flowers, cakes, ceremony, gowns. There’s only one thing I can think of that she’s missing.”

“What’s that?”

“Love.”

Rafe cursed.

“You heard her the other night,” Bruiser said. “She wants love. And devotion and compromise. Funny, isn’t it, how women seem to want those things, when they’re saying words like ‘Till death do us part.’ Now, if Clio—”

“Miss Whitmore.” Rafe threw a vicious right hook.

“If Miss
Whitmore
believed that Lord Granville loves her, this whole endeavor might be different.”

Rafe let his arms drop. “My brother is just like our father. Granvilles are swayed by emotions the same way Alps are rocked by a breeze. How am I supposed to convince her that Piers is in love?”

“I don’t know, Rafe. But there’s a time-honored method I’m going to submit for your consideration. For thousands of years now, men have used it to great effect. It’s called lying.”

“I’m bollocks at lying.”

“Fortunately, I’m excellent at training.” Without warning, Bruiser leapt on Rafe’s back. “Yah.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Rafe spun in a circle, swatting at his trainer as if he were some kind of gnat. Only more irritating.

“Easy, stallion.” Bruiser locked his ankles onto Rafe’s hips in piggyback fashion. “Just run like this, will you? I’m spent, and you need more exertion.”

Rafe huffed a sigh and started running again. Bruiser was right; he’d tire much faster this way. And if he had any hope of making it through one more night in Twill Castle, he needed to run himself into a stupor.

“Now listen sharp,” his trainer said, clinging tight to Rafe’s neck as they pounded down the length of the northern wall. “The key to a good lie is embroidery.”

“I missed that day at finishing school.”

Bruiser dug a heel into his ribs. “Not the needle-and-thread kind. The verbal sort. Embellishments. Particulars. They’re what make a lie believable. As they say, the devil is in the details.”

Rafe snorted.

“If you want to convince her that Piers is in love, you’re going to have tell a good story. One with a time and a place, and plenty of specifics. Now, tell me all about the time you bedded that Parisian opera dancer.”

“I never bedded any Parisian opera dancer.”

“Exactly my point, you dolt. Make it up.”

Rafe tried. He honestly tried. In his imagination, he conjured the fantasy of a dark, mysterious woman, beckoning him toward a bed with beaded scarlet hangings. But his mind kept working a strange alchemy, turning the woman’s ebony hair to gold. Her dark, smoky eyes lightened to a familiar, lovely blue. And as for the bed . . . well, the only bed he could picture was a four-post affair with emerald velvet, and row after perfect row of pillows.

Even in his imagination, he just didn’t have it in him to bed another woman. Not today.

Probably not for a long, long while.

“This is stupid,” he said. “I’m telling you, I can’t lie.”

“You can. You just need practice. And you’re about to get an excellent chance,” Bruiser muttered. “Right about . . .”

“Oh, gracious!” someone close—and female—shrieked.

“Now,” Bruiser finished.

Rafe pulled up short, chest heaving. Clio’s lady’s maid—Anna, was it?—stood before them in the center of the path. No doubt wondering why the hell a sweaty, breathless man was running around the castle wall while carrying another grown man on his back.

Her hands fluttered. “I’m so sorry to have interrupted your . . . this.”

“There’s a reasonable explanation, never fear,” Bruiser said. “Lord Rafe had to carry me. I have a condition.”

You most certainly do,
Rafe thought
.

“A condition?” Her eyebrows crinkled together, and Rafe could all but see little cogs turning behind them. “Is it . . .” She lowered her voice. “Is it serious?”

“Sadly, yes. Possibly fatal.”

She covered her gasp with both hands. Because, apparently, one hand wouldn’t have been dramatic enough. “No. But surely something can be done. What is it?”

“I don’t know. I was unconscious when the doctor saw me. Lord Rafe can explain it better.” Bruiser nudged him in the ribs. “Go on, then. Tell her the whole story of my malady. In detail. With all the particulars. What did that German doctor call it?”