Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (15 page)

Rafe gave her a single, unembroidered word. “Syphilis.”

The lady’s maid turned a pale shade of green. She began backing away in small steps. “I just came to say Miss Whitmore is looking for you, my lord.”

With that, she dropped a frantic curtsy and fled.

The moment she was out of sight, Bruiser tweaked his ear. “You bloody jackass.”

“What are you complaining about? I lied. She believed me.”

“I’ll get you for this.” He began kicking at Rafe’s ribs.

Rafe turned his back to the wall and crushed the man against it.

“My pocket,” Bruiser squeaked. “Mind the quizzing glass.”

“Fuck the quizzing glass.” Rafe let him fall to the ground in a heap. “And to hell with embroidery. I don’t need to lie to Clio. She has enough honest reasons to marry Piers. He’s a bloody marquess with pots of money, and he’s a decent, honorable man. She can’t possibly do better.”

And Rafe was determined that she would have the best.

“What about you?” Bruiser asked.

“What
about
me?”

Bruiser hauled himself off the ground, clapped the dust from his trousers, and put his hands on Rafe’s shoulders. “Your future is on the line here. I can go out and find another fighter, but you are all you’ve got. And you’ve fought enough bouts that you know by now, if you’re to have any chance at besting Dubose, you have to want it. You have to want it more than you want anything in this world.”

Rafe closed his eyes and saw himself on the ground after fighting Dubose. Eyes stinging, head thick. His vision blurred by sweat and blood. The crowd around him chanting and calling as the umpire counted away the last moments of his reign as champion.

Prizefighting had been his life, his salvation. He’d worked too hard, for too long to let that be the way he exited the sport.

“I want to win,” he said. “I need to win.”

“Then this entire situation with Clio is a distraction. What are we even doing here, Rafe? If you’re serious about settling matters, I only see two alternatives. Lie, and tell her Piers is in love with her. Or be honest, and confess that you are.”

“What?” Rafe recoiled, as if he’d been dealt a body blow out of nowhere.

In love with Clio?

No. He couldn’t be.

He liked Clio. He admired her. And there was no denying that he desired her, to a dangerous degree. His fascination with her had outlasted his interest in just about anything or anyone, save prizefighting.

But nothing could ever come from it. Rafe was just a bit of excitement to her, and his touch could only mean ruin for Clio. He’d made his reputation, and now he had to live with it. Most dangerous of all, she had a way of destroying his hard-earned control.

If he cared for her at all, he would stay far away.

“I don’t know where you got such an idea,” he told Bruiser. “That’s absurd. She’s . . . And we. . . .” He gestured uselessly. “I’m not in love with her.”

Bruiser rolled his eyes. “You’re right. You are bollocks at lying. Let’s just go inside.”

Chapter Fifteen

I
n the library a half hour later, Rafe stared longingly at the crystal brandy decanter. He could have used a stiff drink right now. But whatever it was Clio wanted to discuss, he needed to keep his head clear.

“I’ve been looking all over. There you are.”

And there Clio was, standing in the doorway. Muddling his thoughts all over again.

Damnation. Rafe had been counting on having some warning. A bit more time to compose himself before he saw her. As it was, he felt he’d been thrown unawares into a pool of shimmering silk and luminous beauty.

It was swim or drown, and he was breathless. Flailing.

“I . . .”

She’d been so soft and warm in his hands.

Sweet heaven, the taste of her.

“Ahem.” Bruiser cleared his throat. Pointedly. He was already standing.

After a moment’s lapse, Rafe shot to his feet, too. Christ, was he so far removed from his upbringing that he’d forgotten to stand when a lady entered the room?

Even once he’d risen from the chair, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They kept wanting to reach in her direction.

He crossed his arms and tucked them close. He had to get hold of himself.

He said, “You were looking for me.”

“Yes.” She gestured with an envelope. “For you both, actually. We’ve been invited to a ball tomorrow. The Penningtons have an estate near Tunbridge. It’s only a few hours’ drive. Daphne’s keen on attending, and even Phoebe expressed an interest. Will you join us?”

“Jolly good,” Bruiser said, in that affected toffish accent. “But of course we shall.”

“No.” Rafe glanced at him. “We shan’t.”

“Why not?” Clio asked.

“Nothing good could come of my attending. I don’t belong at those things anymore. I never did.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked. “Of course you belong.”

“Oh, indeed. Everyone wants a brawling prizefighter at their high-class party.”

“Maybe not, but they all want lords. No matter what else you’ve done in your life, you will always be the son of a marquess. Birth and lineage are everything to the
ton.
”

Yes, birth and lineage were everything to the
ton.
And that was precisely the reason Rafe despised them. He would rather be judged on his accomplishments.

“If you come,” she said, “I might even forgive you for missing my debut all those years ago.”

And then she gave him a smile.

A warm, flirtatious smile, curved like an archer’s bow. Its arrow struck home, hitting him square in the heart.

He tried his best to appear unskewered. “You’re generous to invite us. But we must decline.”

Bruiser tugged on his waistcoat. “Come along, old chap. Upon my word, I don’t see why we—”

Rafe threw him a glare. “We. Must. Decline.”

“Very well.” His trainer lifted his hands. “We must decline.”

Clio lowered her gaze and fidgeted with the invitation. “I see. Then if you’ll pardon me, I’ll go write the response.”

As she left the room, her lips thinned to a tight, unbending line.

With a curse, Rafe charged into the corridor, turning just in time to glimpse Clio ducking into the library.

He followed her inside. “We should talk. About earlier. About everything.”

“Must it be this moment? I need to write this reply, if you don’t mind. The messenger has been waiting for an hour.” She sat down at the desk.

“You must understand. I’m not welcome at these things.”

“Of course I understand.” She sighed, then let the pen clatter to the blotter. “Actually, I don’t understand at all. For eight years, I’ve reached out to you with one invitation after another. I don’t know how you can say no one wants you at these things.
I
want you at these things. I always have.”

“What were you hoping, Clio? That I’d come to the ball, dressed in a black tailcoat and tall, gleaming boots? Stand at the top of the stairs, be introduced to the room as Lord Rafe Brandon of Somerset? Search you out in the crowded room and make my way to you?” He chuckled. “Ask you for a
dance
?”

She didn’t laugh. Or say anything.

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stared at the blotter. After a prolonged pause, she dipped the quill and began to write.

Well, damn.

So that’s exactly what she’d been hoping would happen. And now he’d mocked her for daring to think it.

He hated to hurt her, but maybe it was for the best. That little scene she’d imagined was never going to occur. It
couldn’t.

And she needed to understand that, in no uncertain terms.

“Clio, I’m sorry if you—”

“No, don’t. Don’t apologize. Why should anything between us change, just because you confessed to desiring me for years, then fondled my breast? Never mind that it was one of the most passionate, thrilling hours of my life. I suppose it’s just another Thursday to you.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Her head lifted, and her blue eyes burned into his. “You’re right. I do know it’s not true. And that makes this hurt all the more.”

Curse it. Rafe knew he was making a hash of this. “I just don’t belong in that world anymore. But you do, Clio. You should go and enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll be surrounded by gossip.” Her pen scratched across the page. She lowered her voice to a mocking whisper. “There she is, Miss Wait-More. Wonder if she’ll manage to bring him up to scratch this time. Care to place a wager on it?”

“It’s not going to be like that.”

“You’re right.” She paused in writing. Her demeanor softened. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not going to be like that. Because by this time tomorrow, I won’t be engaged any longer.”

Damn. Rafe didn’t like the sound of this.

She sealed the envelope with a bit of wax. “I won’t ask you to attend the ball. But you must sign those dissolution papers before I leave.”

“The week’s not over yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still tonight.”

“I can’t imagine what you could possibly do in one night that would change my mind.” She gave him a wry smile. “If you’ll excuse me, the messenger is waiting.”

She left the room, sealed reply in hand.

And Rafe started thinking of embroidery.

Dinner was miserable. At least, for half of the people at the table.

Clio was out of sorts and quiet. Rafe was out of sorts and quiet. Phoebe was out of sorts and quiet. Conveniently, however, the other half of their party seemed entirely oblivious to anyone’s distress.

Daphne prattled on about tomorrow night’s ball at the Penningtons’. The Esquire, as Clio had taken to calling him in her thoughts, filled any gaps by recounting his “Continental” escapades. And Teddy monopolized the fish course with a lengthy description of his newest pair of bespoke Hessians.

When the meal was over, they all adjourned to the drawing room.

“I’m finalizing the menu for the wedding breakfast,” Daphne said. “It’s almost finished. How many sauces should we have?”

“Can we speak of something else?” Clio asked, her voice breaking. “Please? I feel like such a neglectful hostess, making you work the whole week. And look at poor Teddy. He’s bored out of his mind by all this talk of menus. Why don’t we have a game?”

“What kind of game?”

“Any kind of game.” She’d agree to chase a greased pig through the corridors if it meant changing the topic from weddings. “We’ll play cards or backgammon or something.”

“Not cards,” Daphne said. “Not with Phoebe. She’s impossible to win against.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy playing with her,” Clio said, anxious for her sister’s feelings.

Phoebe turned a page of her book. “I don’t wish to play cards.”

Mr. Montague spoke up. “If I might make a suggestion . . . What say the ladies to a parlor game?”

“A parlor game?” Clio chanced a look in Rafe’s direction. The pained expression on his face was clear. He’d rather eat slugs than play parlor games. “Parlor games sound delightful.”

“Oh, I adore parlor games,” said Daphne. “They’re all so perfectly wicked. If they don’t have kissing, there’s blindfolded groping, or sitting on one another’s lap.”

“I was thinking of one particular parlor game. I learned it during my time on the Continent,” Montague said.

“A Continental parlor game?” Daphne asked. “This sounds promising. Does it involve groping?”

“No, Lady Cambourne. But I suspect you’ll enjoy it anyway.” He smiled. “We take turns, and each player makes three statements. Two must be true, and one must be a falsehood. The others have to guess which of the three statements is the lie.”

Daphne was quick to cut straws. When they were passed around, Rafe declined. Clio ended up with the shortest.

“But that will be too easy,” Daphne complained. “We’ve known Clio all her life, and she hasn’t any secrets.”

“Hasn’t she?” Reclining in the chair, Montague propped his left boot on his right knee. “I don’t know, Lady Cambourne. I have a suspicion Miss Whitmore just might be full of secrets.”

Clio said, “As a matter of fact, I am.”

At this, Rafe threw her a warning look. Her heartbeat accelerated.

Impossible man. Was he worried she’d announce her plans to break the engagement? Or perhaps he worried that she would confess their passionate embrace?

It would serve him right if she did either one.

But Clio was tired of thinking about Rafe and Piers. For once, she was ready to talk about herself. “Here are my three statements. First, my favorite color is green.”

Daphne groaned. “Make it a
little
less obvious.”

“Second,” Clio forged on, “I am planning to build a brewery here at Twill Castle. And third . . .” She swept a glance around the room. “I have never been kissed.”

She folded her hands and waited for their reaction.

The room lapsed into stunned silence. Daphne, Teddy . . . even Phoebe . . . They weren’t merely surprised. They all looked positively aghast. Was the idea of a brewery truly that upsetting to them?

Teddy shook his head gravely. “That’s . . . well, curse it. I don’t know what to say to that. Except that I’m dashed sorry.”

“Oh, darling.” Daphne rose from her chair and came to sit beside Clio on the divan. She put a hand on Clio’s knee. “He’s never kissed you? In all these years, not once?”

Clio inhaled slowly. It was a sad comment on her life that her nearest family believed
this
to be the most likely truth.

“I suppose we all knew it wasn’t a love match,” Daphne said. “But I thought surely you two shared some fondness for each other by now.”

“He won’t get out of it.” Teddy roused himself from his chair. “We won’t allow him to cry off, no matter how he tries to weasel his way out of this engagement. After eight years, the man owes you a wedding.”

“Wait,” Clio said. “You’re jumping to conclusions. How do you know the kissing one isn’t the falsehood?”

“Because it’s obvious,” Daphne said. “Everyone knows your favorite color is green. So that’s ruled out. And a brewery, really? That can’t be true. Of all the outlandish ideas.”

“What’s so outlandish about it? The estate’s resources need to be used, or the local community will suffer. Don’t you think I could do it?”

“She could do it,” Rafe said.

Clio turned to look at him, surprised. She didn’t think he’d been paying attention.

“She could do it,” he repeated, leaning one shoulder against the paneled wall. “This region is ideal for beer-making. Miss Whitmore has the funds, the land, the wits. With the right help, she could make a go of it.”

“Perhaps she could,” Teddy agreed. “But her intended wouldn’t approve. Are we to believe the pubs and taverns will all be serving Lady Granville’s Ale?” He chuckled. “Your brother wouldn’t allow such a thing.”

“You’re right,” Clio said, gathering her courage. “I don’t imagine Piers would allow it. But that’s just it, you see. I’m not going to ma—”

“You’re not going to open a brewery. Of course not. How absurd.” Daphne clapped her hands. “Well, that settles Clio’s turn. Who is next?”

“Wait,” Rafe interjected, in a tone that would not be disobeyed. His eyes flashed. “Clio’s turn isn’t over. You have it wrong, Lady Cambourne. You have it entirely wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Miss Whitmore has indeed been kissed,” Rafe said. “I’m certain of it.”

“But how can you possibly know?” Daphne asked.

Clio’s breath caught. Did she want Rafe to answer that question honestly? Perhaps she did. But even though she’d started this game, the decision was out of her control.

He gestured in anger. “Because I was there.”

Damnation.

Rafe hadn’t meant to say that. The words had just fired out of him, like a wild, reckless punch he should have checked.

Everyone stared at him. Including Clio, he assumed, but he didn’t dare glance her way to confirm it.

“Lord Rafe, are you telling us you witnessed this kiss with your own eyes?” Daphne didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

“No,” he replied honestly.

He hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes. What kind of jackass kissed with his eyes open?

He’d witnessed it with his own
lips.

But telling that truth wouldn’t do his cause any favors.

“Then I shall stand by my answer,” Daphne said. “Now whose turn is next?”

“Mine,” Rafe said.

“Your turn?” Clio asked. “I thought you weren’t playing.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Afraid you’ll have to wait for the next round, Brandon,” Sir Teddy Cambourne said. “My lady here cut straws and passed them around. That part’s been done. You can’t have a turn if you don’t have a straw.”

Rafe threw the man a look. A look with the force of a fist. “Really?”

Cambourne had nothing further to say. Neither did anyone else.

Rafe took the collective silence as his invitation. “First statement. In my original championship bout, I defeated Golding with a hard blow to the liver in the twenty-third round. Second . . .” He settled into a chair. “The last time I spoke with my brother, Piers told me how much he regretted the extended absence imposed by his duties, because . . .”