Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (18 page)

Rafe sipped at his porter. Clio took bites of her cake. She didn’t press him for more. Only waited.

“He came to my fights.”

She swallowed. “The marquess?”

He nodded.

“I confess, I’m shocked. I visited the late Lord Granville once a fortnight. He never mentioned it.”

Rafe cracked his neck. “We never talked, before or after, but he was always there in the crowd somewhere, all tight-faced and stern. Never cheered. Never applauded. He just came to register his disapproval, I suppose.”

“Were you pleased to see him?”

He shook his head. “Made me so damned angry. Made me fight harder, too, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose in front of him. I had this wild idea . . . a hope, I suppose . . . that one day, I’d win and he’d come down from the crowd and shake my hand. Say, ‘Well done, Rafe.’ That would have been enough. In all my four years as champion, it never happened.

“The day I fought Dubose,” he went on, “I spied him there. And for the first time, I thought . . . if winning for four years straight doesn’t impress him, what would the old man do if he watched me lose?”

“Are you saying you lost the fight on purpose?”

“No. I can’t say that. That would be unfair to Dubose. He was bloody brilliant that day. But the thought of losing got in my head. And any trainer will tell you, once that idea’s in your head . . . it’s all over but the bleeding. I started making mistakes, slowing down, throwing wild punches that only caught air.”

“And you lost.”

“Badly.”

“Yes. I remember the bruises.” She winced. “So? What
did
your father do?”

Rafe took a long swallow of porter, fortifying himself for what came next. “He went home without a word to me. That night, he had a heart attack. You know the rest. Never recovered. Dead within the week.”

The words echoed dully in his chest.

“Oh, no.” Her voice softened. “Rafe. Surely you don’t blame yourself.”

“How could I not?” He massaged his temples. “I don’t have the faintest notion what was in his heart that night. Was he disgusted? Concerned? Pleased? Whatever emotion he kept so tightly bottled up in there, it finally exploded. And I’d lit the fuse.”

“Rafe, listen to me.” Her blue eyes drilled into his. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. He’d suffered two smaller attacks in the past year. The man wasn’t well.”

He acknowledged her words, but they did little to ease his guilt. If what she said was the truth, Rafe should have known. He should have been even more careful. If he hadn’t antagonized the man, he might have lived to see Piers come home.

“They sent me word he was dying. Asking for his son. I told myself I shouldn’t go. That I wasn’t the son he wanted. But in the end, I . . .” His voice broke. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Clio reached forward and took hold of his hand.

He started to pull back, but caught himself. Instead, he squeezed her fingers in silent thanks. If she could be brave enough to make the gesture, he ought to be man enough to accept it.

“So I went to the house. I stood at his bedside. He was half-gone already, it seemed. Weakened, confused. I’ve seen a great many fighters in a bad way, but I’ve never seen a man go from indomitable to frail so quickly. He didn’t know where he was, or when. He just kept saying, ‘my son.’ Over and over again, ‘my son, fetch my son.’ I . . .” Rafe cleared the emotion from his throat. “I told him Piers was in Vienna. He didn’t seem to understand.”

“Perhaps he
was
asking for you.”

“Perhaps he was. Maybe he loved me all along. Perhaps he attended all those fights in hopes I’d come up into the crowd and reach out to
him.
” Rafe released her hand. “I only know that afterward, it all seemed so stupid. All those years of being bad in every way I could manage, heaping brimstone on my devilish reputation just to spite him. So much stubborn pride and wasted time.”

“It’s only wasted time if you don’t learn from it.”

“You believe that?”

“I have to believe that. Or else I’d weep every time I thought about the past eight years.”

He thought on it. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll never be able to go back and be a better son. But I have a chance—if a dwindling one, after tonight—to do right by Piers. We’re never going to be best friends, the two of us. He’ll never see his father again, and that’s my fault. I can’t do anything to bring the old man back, but at least I can—”

“Keep his dog alive,” she finished. “And make sure his bride is waiting.”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “You say Piers doesn’t feel any passion for you. Maybe you’re right; I can’t honestly say. But he and our father were so much alike. I can’t set aside the possibility that my brother cares for you, deeply. In some reserved, distant Granville way. So much that losing you could break him.”

At heart, Piers and Clio were two of the best, most decent people he knew. If Piers did love her, and if the two of them could be happy together . . . ?

Rafe wanted that for them both.

She rested her head in her hands.

“I know you despise being told to wait. But it’s only a few weeks. If you want to break it off, I won’t stand in the way. I just can’t be the one to deal the blow.”

Rafe had one broken heart on his conscience already. That guilt was more than enough.

He said, “You’ll never know how he truly feels unless you give him a chance.”

“He’s had eight years of chances. I worry I’ll never have mine.”

“This
is
your chance. Don’t wait as a favor to me. Do it for yourself. Because it’s your decision, and both you and Piers deserve to know that.”

“You’re right,” she said after a pause. “I know you’re right. It was selfish of me to ask you to sign those papers. Selfish, and cowardly. I’ve just been so afraid. How on earth am I supposed hold my own with him? He’s a diplomat who’s spent the past eight years convincing governments to surrender. I’m terrified that when he comes home, my mother’s lessons will overwhelm my intentions, and I’ll marry him just to be polite.”

“You’ll be fine,” Rafe said.

She laughed aloud.

“I mean it. All week long, you’ve had no difficulty arguing with me.”

“That’s different.” She gave him a confessional look. “I’ve never talked with anyone the way I can with you. You don’t agree with any of my ideas, but at least you listen to them and pay me the compliment of arguing back.”

He cast a bemused look at his porter. “We’ve been training you all wrong.”

“Training
me?” Her eyebrow arched. “Like a dog?”

Rafe groaned. Not this again. “Not like a dog, like a fighter. Bruiser had this idea that we should go into wedding planning the same way he’d prepare a prizefighter for a championship bout. Get your head in the ring, boost your confidence. So you could imagine yourself victorious.”

“Well, that explains a few things. Like the compliments. And the kisses. And that ridiculous lie about Piers at my debut.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “So embarrassing. You only wanted to boost my confidence. And then tonight I—”

“And then tonight you were nearly ruined.” He pulled her hand away from her face. “I’ve always desired you. It’s one of the reasons I kept my distance. You’re too damned tempting, and it’s not in my character to resist.”

In response, she pushed a morsel of cake around her plate.

Surely she couldn’t doubt him on this. Even if she believed Rafe capable of deceit, she had to have
felt
his lust for her tonight. Every hot, steely inch of it.

On the other hand, considering that she’d received nothing but casual insults and neglect from her family, peers, and intended groom for the past several years . . . to the point of being starved into illness . . . Rafe supposed a little dirty talking and a prod in the soft bits might not be the gesture of confidence she craved.

A lacy white gown probably wasn’t the answer, either.

Damn. Rafe had never been any kind of scholar, but this week, he’d truly been an idiot.

I want a challenge,
she’d told him.
Something that’s mine.

She was already a fighter. He should have recognized it from the first. She couldn’t have survived these past eight years if she didn’t have a champion’s heart. But she didn’t want to win at “Mother’s game,” any more than Rafe wanted to be world champion of lawn bowls.

She wanted to define her own success.

“So that grand wedding of every girl’s dreams,” he said, “where you float down the aisle like an angel and prove all the gossips wrong. That isn’t the victory you’re wanting.”

“No. It isn’t.”

He nodded. “Then finish your cake and porter. And we’ll see about toughening you up.”

Chapter Eighteen

C
lio hadn’t the faintest idea what Rafe had in mind. They took lamps in hand and moved to the drawing room, where he cleared the small tables and chairs to make an open space.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to teach you to throw a punch.”

She laughed. “You want me to
punch
your brother?”

“No.” He pushed a settee toward the wall.

“Then I don’t understand why this is relevant.”

“I know you don’t. But give it a chance. The time for politeness is over. You need to get meaner, Clio. Understand the power in your body and how to harness it.”

“Power?” She lifted her delicate arm for his appraisal. “Do you see any power in this body?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You mean the power to draw a man’s gaze, perhaps. Apparently that never worked on Piers.”

“I mean strength. It’s in there, just waiting to be unleashed.” Having cleared the last of the furniture, he came to stand before her. His gaze homed in on hers. “Trust me.”

Clio wanted to trust him. However, she suspected this entire exercise would only make her look like more of a fool. Her, throwing a punch?

But she had to try. Rafe claimed he wanted to settle his debts with Piers. She knew his yearning went much deeper than that. He needed a family. Lasting connection. And if he was to have any chance at it, Clio couldn’t ask him to fight her battles. She needed to learn to take swings of her own.

“Very well. What do I do?”

“First, you need to loosen up.”

He took her wrists in his big, roughened hands and shook out her arms as though they were a pair of eels he meant to clobber. She felt ridiculous.

“Good.” He released her wrists and circled to stand behind her. His hands moved to bracket her skull. “Now roll your head back and forth a bit. Stretch out your neck.”

She did as he guided, looking from side to side, and then to the ceiling and floor. She bounced back and forth, transferring her weight from one foot to the other. “When does the punching start?”

“Patience, patience. Stand with your feet apart, about the breadth of your shoulders. Shoulders down, arms loose. Find your center of balance.” His splayed hand settled low on her belly. “Here. You feel it?”

How could she
not
feel it?

If the goal was loosening her up, he’d achieved it. The warm, possessive weight of his hand on her belly, coupled with the low, rumbling voice in her ear . . .

Oh, he made her feel all sorts of loose.

“I . . . I think I’m ready now.”

“Then show me a fist.”

She made a fist and held it up. “Here.”

He tsked. “No, not like that. You’ll break your thumb.” He unfolded her fingers and balled them up again, this time placing her thumb on the outside.

Then, molding his arms around hers, he guided her into a fighting stance. Right leg slightly back, both fists up in a posture of defense. The broad, solid heat of his chest worked like an iron, smoothing all the tension from her back.

“The first punch you learn is a jab,” he said. “Step forward with your left foot, and push your left fist straight out. Let your body weight propel it forward. Quick and sharp, like a bee sting. Then retract. Like this, see?”

Clio made her joints limp and allowed him to move her through the punching motions as though she were a marionette.

“Then you follow with a right cross.” He guided her right fist forward. “Can you feel your torso twisting behind the punch?”

She nodded.

“That’s where the force comes from. It’s not your arm, it’s the rest of you.”

When he threw their combined fists forward, she could feel the sheer bulk of him backing the blow. Sheets of muscle bunching and flexing beneath his skin.

With Rafe behind her, she felt as though she could topple mountains. But it was all borrowed strength. He could flick his fingertip and send a man flying, if he wished.

“Now it’s your turn.” He released her and plucked two firm, upholstered pillows from the divan. He held the cushions in either hand, the flat side presented to Clio at approximately shoulder height. “Have a go.”

“You want me to punch the pillow?”

“Why not? You need a target.” He lifted the pillows. “And these stupid things need a purpose.”

She bit her lip. “They make me feel less alone.”

His brow wrinkled. “What’s that?”

“The pillows. That’s their purpose. The reason why I keep so many of them everywhere. They’re soft and warm, and they stay in one place. They make me feel less alone.” She sniffed. “I suppose you’re right. It is stupid.”

Lowering the pillows, he moved toward her. “Clio . . .”

“I’m fine.” She stepped back, balling her hands in fists. “I’m ready to punch.”

“Fists up,” he told her. He held out the pillow on her left. “Try a jab.”

Her first few attempts were embarrassing. The first time, she failed to connect with the pillow at all. On her second attempt, her “jab” was more of a nudge.

But Rafe didn’t laugh at her attempts. He kept at her, encouraging and teasing by turns, and taking breaks to correct her form. After a few dozen attempts, she threw a punch that seemed to land with something that resembled . . . force.

“There,” he said. “Felt good, didn’t it?”

“Very good,” she said, breathless. But “very” was too polite a word. This was bare-knuckle boxing, after all. “Damned good. Bloody good.”

He smiled. “Don’t tell Bruiser, or he’ll start angling to get you in a ring.”

She cocked her head. “There are female prizefighters? Really?”

“Oh, yes. Very popular with the crowds. Mostly because they often end up bare-breasted.”

The shameless devil. She sent a right cross that hit the pillow with a satisfying
oof.
“I’m starting to understand why you like this.”

“Then maybe you can understand my true secret now. The one none of those other women wanted to believe.”

“What’s that?”

“That I don’t need to be saved from fighting. Fighting saved me.”

Clio lowered her fists and regarded him. She did believe it. The tone of his voice as he explained these simple motions . . . It was imbued not only with authority but something that almost sounded like love.

Prizefighting was more than brute violence or rebellion to him. It was a craft he’d worked years to master. Perhaps even an art.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking time to teach me.”

He raised the pillow. “Oh, we’re not finished. Do it again.”

She did it again. And again. She punched at those pillows over and over, until she started driving him backward and he circled to keep from being backed against the wall.

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s my girl. Punch back at everything they told you. That you weren’t good enough. That you never could be. It’s bollocks, all of it. Look how strong you are.”

She threw punch after punch, pushing out all the anger and frustration of the last eight years. Until her arms were custard.

“Now”—he threw the pillows aside—“I’m Piers. I’m back from Vienna. Ready to marry you. Give me your worst.”

“My worst? I thought you wanted me to give your brother a chance.”

“It’s the same thing. Give him a chance, but give him hell. If he can’t win you over, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Er . . . “ She was out of breath from all the boxing. “Oh, goodness. Piers, I—”

“No, no. Your posture’s gone all wrong.” He corrected her with his hands, laying one palm between her shoulder blades and the other on her belly. “Remember, you can do this. You’re not seventeen. You’re a woman. A strong one.”

He released her and took two steps back, pretending to be Piers again. “Now, what is it you have to say?”

“I . . .”

“Eye contact. Look up.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I am glad to see you home safe and well, but I don’t think we should marry.”

“Oh, jolly good.” He slung himself into the nearest chair and propped up his feet.

Clio shook herself and laughed. “What are you doing?”

“What you’ve been claiming Piers will do.” He folded his hands beneath his head. “You promised me he’d be nothing but relieved. Overjoyed, even.”

She sighed.

“See? When you’re honest with yourself, even you know that’s not going to be the case.” He stood up again. “So he’s not going to say ‘jolly good.’ He’s going to say something like . . .” He pitched his voice into an aristocratic baritone. “Of course we’re going to marry. It was decided when we were children. We’ve been engaged for years.”

“Yes. But I think it might for the best if . . .”

“No, no.” Rafe broke out of his Piers role. “Don’t use words like ‘think’ or ‘might.’ You’ve decided.”

“I’ve decided. I’ve decided to break the engagement.”

He narrowed his eyes to a severe stare, in a frighteningly accurate impression of his brother. “You agreed to marry me.”

“I was seventeen then. Little more than a child. I didn’t understand that I have choices. And now that I do . . . I choose differently.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t love you, and you don’t love me.”

“A deeper affection will come with time,” he said. “And no matter how far I’ve traveled, you were never far from my thoughts. I do care about you.”

She swallowed hard. “And I appreciate that. I truly do. But it doesn’t change my mind.”

“Is there someone else?”

The question caught her unawares. Although she supposed it shouldn’t have. It made sense that
Piers
would ask it. But she didn’t know what
Rafe
would wish her to say.

“Answer me,” he said, forceful and commanding as any marquess. “I demand to know the truth. Is there someone else?”

“Yes. There is someone else. There’s me.”

His eyes flashed with surprise.

“There’s me,” she repeated. “I’ve spent a great deal of time alone these past eight years. I’ve come to know myself and my own capabilities. I’m resilient. I can withstand a little gossip. Or even a lot of it. I can inherit an estate and devote myself not only to its preservation, but its improvement. Because I’ve taken all those lessons and accomplishments that were supposed to make me the ideal diplomat’s wife—and I’ve made them my own. At some point, while you were roaming the globe, making treaties and dividing the spoils of war, I quietly declared my own independence. I am the sovereign nation of Clio now. And there will be no terms of surrender.”

Rafe was quiet.

“Well?” she asked.

He shrugged, noncommittal.

“Too melodramatic at the end? No good?”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“Not
bad
?” She grabbed the discarded pillow and bashed his shoulder with it. Repeatedly. “It was brilliant, and you know it.”

“Very well, very well.” Laughing, he seized one corner of the cushion and tugged, drawing her close. “It was brilliant.”

Clio’s heart swelled in her chest. His praise was . . . Well, it was better than cake.

“You’re brilliant,” he whispered. “If Piers doesn’t fall to his knees and beg you to reconsider, he’s a damned fool.”

Heat and desire built between them, quick as fire taking hold of dry grass. The sensation was so intoxicating. And so very cruel. All her life, she’d been waiting to feel this kind of passion—only to find it with the one man she could never, ever hold.

Discussing how to manage a troubled sister, sitting up all night with a dyspeptic dog, discussing secret pain over late-night cake and beer . . . These were the experiences that proved two people could make a life together.

Now it didn’t even matter what they felt for each other. Rafe loved Piers. He wanted the chance to be a good brother, and Clio didn’t want to take that away. So whatever this was they shared, the two of them—

Unless she meant to destroy his last chance at family, it could never be more.

“Can’t we just pretend to be other people?” she whispered. “For a few hours, at least?”

“I don’t want that. You don’t, either.”

Clio nodded. He was right, she didn’t want to pretend they were other people. She wanted to be no one but herself, and she wanted to be with him.

She wanted
Rafe.

Not because he was dangerous or untamed or wrong but because this felt so
right.

“You won’t be ruined,” a familiar voice announced.

Oh, God.

Rafe released her and stepped back. Clio clutched a pillow tight across her chest. But no matter how many feet—or pillows—separated them, they were alone and half-dressed in the middle of the night. No one could fail to see the truth.

No one, that was, except the person who wandered into the room.

In rambled Phoebe, with her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders and her nose buried in an old copy of
The Times.

“Phoebe.” Clio breathed the name as a sigh of relief. “What a surprise. Lord Rafe and I were just . . .”

“It’s the hop yield,” her sister interrupted, uninterested in explanations.

“W-what?”

Crops. Her sister was wandering the castle in the dead of night, reading
The Times
and puzzling over hop yields.

Yes, that sounded like Phoebe.

Her sister lowered the newspaper. “Lord Rafe was right. Hops are a fragile crop and a risky investment. But I’ve found the way you can protect yourself from ruin.” She pointed at an article. “Each year, speculators wager hundreds and thousands on the final hop yield. It’s in all the papers.”

Clio searched her memory. If something appeared in the papers, she would know about it. “Yes, I remember reading the forecasts. I didn’t realize wagering was so widespread.”

“Damn right it is.” Rafe took the paper. “In some taverns, there’s more money bet on hops than on prizefighters. They make charts of every passing rain cloud.”

Clio approached to have a look at the paper herself. “But we can’t foretell the weather. How would I know what to predict?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “You’re going to bet against yourself.”

“Bet against myself? But why would I . . . ?” As she ran through the outcomes in her mind, Clio was beginning to understand. “So if the farming goes well, we make money on the crop, but if it’s a lean year . . .”