Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

E
ight years, four months, and sixteen days after first accepting Lord Piers Brandon’s proposal of marriage, Clio paid the man a visit at his new offices in the House of Lords.

“Why, Ellingworth.” Upon entering, she greeted the ancient bulldog with a pat. “You’re looking fit as a pup.”

“Come in,” Piers said. “Do have a seat.”

Clio settled herself in an armchair and pulled a velvet pouch from her pocket. “This first. I don’t want to risk forgetting it.” She shook its glittering contents onto his desk blotter.

“I don’t need the ring back,” Piers said. “You should keep it.”

“Keep it?”

Clio glanced at the gold-and-ruby band. And then she glanced at the dog.

“A magnanimous gesture, my lord. But one I couldn’t accept.”

He began to object.

“I insist.” She warded him off with an open hand. “I really . . . truly . . . sincerely . . . could not possibly accept.”

“Very well, then.” With a shrug, he placed the ring in a locked drawer of his desk and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “I’m sorry I had to ask you to come all the way into London for this.”

“It’s no trouble. I know you’re busy, and I had business in London anyway.”

Clio had a look at his office. Papers piled high, volumes of law and parliamentary records stacked neatly for his review. He was throwing himself into his new role with typical Granville dedication and attention to detail. And the mantle of authority became him, she had to admit. Even with the stray thread of silver in his hair, he was more handsome than he’d ever been.

She wondered what sort of woman could possibly challenge his devotion to duty. She wondered what secrets he might tell that woman in the darkest hour of night. But those things weren’t Clio’s to find out. Not anymore.

They never truly had been.

“I’m not attempting to change your mind. But out of curiosity,” he said, “was there something I might have done differently?”

She smiled. “Other than not leaving the country for eight years and never being honest about your purposes?”

“Right. Other than that.”

Clio shook her head. “You could only be yourself. And I needed to grow into me. It’s all for the best.”

The actual signing of the papers was all very amicable.

When it was done, Piers sat back in his chair and regarded her. “So you had business in Town. Is it the brewery?”

She nodded. “We’re on our way. The hopfields will go in next spring. Construction on the new oasts is beginning next month. I’ve just seen the plans from the architect.”

She’d decided not to convert the old castle tower after all. The architect had declared the structure sound enough, but Clio just couldn’t bring herself to destroy the neighborhood’s favored trysting place. Not after she’d made a surveying trip there with the land agent and spied a remarkably fresh addition to the collection of lovers’ graffiti.

RB+CW

Right on the wall. Carved in stone.

He must have known she’d see it. She wondered when he’d etched it there. It must have been sometime after Piers’s return. It couldn’t have been as soon as after their first kiss.

Or could it?

Waiting on Rafe was more difficult than waiting for Piers had ever been. She missed everything about him—his impatience, his gentleness, his strength, his touch, his scent. But these months had not been wasted time. To distract herself, she’d thrown herself into the work, accomplishing more in less time than anyone—including Clio—would have suspected. She hoped Rafe had done the same.

“How is your brother?”

She couldn’t resist asking. She hoped the question tripped off her tongue sounding breezy and polite, and not at all imbued with a heart’s worth of pent-up emotions.

“Fine,” Piers answered. Then he added, “I think.”

“You
think
?”

“I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. He’s been in training again.”

“Oh. He has a bout scheduled, then?”

“It would seem so.”

A prickle of anticipation ran up her spine. “Is it with Dubose? Is he fighting to regain his championship?”

“I don’t know. But I just had a notice the other day . . .” He riffled through a stack of papers on his desk until he found the one he sought. “Ah. Here it is.”

Then he held it out to her—a broadsheet, emblazoned with Rafe’s likeness.

Lord, just seeing his picture felt like having his big, boxer’s fist reach straight into her chest and wring her heart.

Her eyes skipped over the energetic prose of the broadsheet. “Rafe Brandon . . . the Devil’s Own . . . the match of his life . . . behind the Crooked Rook in Queensridge . . . the hour of—”

Oh, heavens.

She waved the paper at Piers. “This is happening
today,
ten miles outside London. It’s due to begin in just a few hours.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why are you here? You’re not going to watch him?”

“I . . . hadn’t planned on it.”

“But you
must.
” Clio rose from her chair. “You have to be there.”

Ever the proper gentleman, Piers stood when she did. “I don’t see why . . .”

“You must go,” she repeated firmly. “Piers, he sent this broadsheet to you for a reason. You’re his only family. He wants you there.” She saw his hat hanging on a hook on the wall, and she jammed it on his head, then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the chair. “We’re going, the two of us.”

“The two of us? Absolutely not. A prizefight is no place for a gentlewoman.”

“Neither is a brewery or Parliament, I’m told—and yet I’ve visited both already this morning. Hurry. We’ll make it just in time, but only if we leave now.”

“Why are you so set on this?” he asked, frowning. “Why does my scoundrel brother’s prizefight matter to you?”

The question hung in the air for a moment.

“Because I love him,” she said, breaking the glassy silence with the only words that possessed sufficient blunt force. “And you should come with me because you love him, too.”

“How long have you been in love with my brother?”

Piers asked the question while they were rattling down the Old Kent Road, somewhere near Gravesend. As if they were just continuing the conversation they’d paused two hours prior, in his office.

“Since always, I think.” She folded her hands. “But I only realized it recently.”

His reaction was predictably stoic.

She couldn’t fathom how Piers could remain so calm in the face of her revelations. Much less in the face of this traffic. Good heavens, the snarl of carriages and carts waiting at the bridge would have given her brother-in-law an apoplexy.

Even Clio was drumming her fingers on the seat and tapping her toes in her slippers. The autumn day was heating to a simmer, and the warmth didn’t improve her patience.

The coach lurched to a sudden halt.

“Why are we stopping? Is there a turnpike?”

“The road is clogged with carriages, all the way to the bend,” Piers said, craning his neck. “We must be close.”

Clio checked her timepiece. Almost noon.

There wasn’t any time to waste.

She reached for the door latch. “Then I’ll cover the rest of the distance on foot.”

“Clio, wait.”

She laughed as she pushed the door open and escaped the confines of the carriage. Of all the futile words to call after her.

Clio, wait.

She wasn’t waiting one second longer.

Piers followed her as she raced along the side of the road, clambering over a stile to cut across a field. High, impertinent grasses tangled about her boots and grasped at the hem of her skirt.

When she reached the tavern, she could see the fight had drawn onlookers by the score. Perhaps by the hundreds. They were flocking like linnets toward the grassy meadow behind the inn.

She picked up her skirts and dashed the remaining distance, attempting to pick and weave her way through the crowd. “Excuse me, please. I beg your pardon. Please let me pass.”

A man trod on her boot.

She made a fist and cocked it. “
Move.
”

The last, inner ring of spectators gave way, and Clio emerged into the center clearing.

There he was.

Rafe.

Standing not thirty feet away. His back was to her, but she’d know those shoulders anywhere.

“Rafe!” She hastened across the meadow. “Rafe, wait!”

He turned, pausing in the act of fixing his cuff. He frowned at her. “Clio. You’re early.”

Early?

Perhaps she ought to have wondered why he seemed to be expecting her, but she was too busy feeling relieved that she wasn’t too late. Evidently the fight wasn’t due to start quite yet. He was dressed much too fine for boxing—wearing a blue tailcoat, freshly starched cravat, and a striped silk waistcoat.

And those tall, gleaming boots.

Dear heaven, he looked magnificent.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking past her toward the road. “Where’s my br—”

“I’m not . . .” She pressed a hand to her belly, breathless. “I’m not here to stop you.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “I won’t even watch if you don’t want me to.”

“You . . . won’t.”

She shook her head. “But I wanted you to know I’m here. Cheering for you. Believing in you. Most of all, I needed to show you this.” She pulled a paper from her pocket and unfolded it, handing it to him. “Go on, have a look.”

He peered at it.

“It’s for the brewery,” she explained. “I’ve just ordered seven hundred casks with that design. So you’d better win. I should hate to have to change them all now.”

He read the inscription aloud. “Champion Pale Ale.”

“You’re going to beat him, Rafe. I know you will. You’re the strongest and bravest man I know, and you have the most heart. You supported my dreams. I believe in yours. Go get your title back.”

He was quiet as he stared at the paper.

For interminable moments.

“Could you . . .” She swallowed nervously. “Could you say something? Or do something? Anything, really. I feel quite alone right now.”

He brushed aside a stray lock of her hair, and the sensation made her breathless all over again. She’d gone so long without his touch.

“You’re not alone. You never will be.” Folding the paper, he added, “I think Champion Pale Ale is a fine name indeed. It’s only . . . we’ll have to ask Jack Dubose to endorse it.”

“No, no.
You’ll
endorse it. You’re going to beat Dubose today.”

“That would be difficult, seeing as he’s not here.”

She didn’t understand. “But I saw the broadsheet. It said, ‘Witness Rafe Brandon meeting his most formidable opponent yet. The match of his life.’ Who else could that be, but Dubose?”

That boyish grin tugged at his lips. “Who indeed?”

Clio was so confused. She stepped back and turned in a circle, for the first time taking a proper survey of the area. The space was wide and open, and she couldn’t see Rafe’s opponent anywhere. The onlookers appeared to be remarkably well-groomed for a prizefight, and . . .

Goodness. How odd. Was that her cousin Elinor? What on earth could she be doing at a prizefight?

“Where’s the ring?” she asked, turning back to him. “There’s no ring.”

“Oh, there’s a ring. I have it right here.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a band of shining gold, balanced between his enormous thumb and forefinger.

A lump formed in Clio’s throat as she stared at it. Three lovely, soft green emeralds surrounded by smaller diamonds.

“You said your favorite color is green. I hope that was one of the truths.”

“This is for me?”

“It’s all for you. The ring. The guests. The broadsheet. Sorry, but I thought you’d suffered through enough of these preparations already. And I didn’t have the patience for proper invitations.”

Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to understand him. “This isn’t a prizefight at all. It’s a wedding.”

He nodded. “Ours, I hope.”

Oh. Oh, this man.

The air went out of her. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“You did say you wouldn’t mind a wedding in the middle of a field. Just so long as you loved the man you were marrying.”

And she did love him. She loved him so much, it hurt to breathe.

She cast a glance at Piers, who’d only just caught up. “You
knew,
” she accused him. “You knew the whole time. You truly are devious.”

The man shrugged. “I did owe you a wedding, after all that.”

“Believe me, you don’t know the half of his deviousness,” Rafe said. “We’ve been working on this for weeks now. He helped plan everything.”

Piers said, “That’s the duty of the best man.”

The two shared a look of fraternal conspiracy. If Clio hadn’t been so overjoyed to see them getting along as brothers, she would have tweaked their ears for torturing her this way.

“But what about prizefighting? The championship?”

“I’m not done with fighting,” Rafe said. “But Bruiser’s been negotiating with Dubose’s second. We might decide we can make more money with an exhibition.”

“An exhibition?”

“A series of them, more like. Champion versus champion. They’d be real fights, but legal ones. Conducted in proper arenas. With more rules and gloves, so it’s less dangerous.”

Clio liked the sound of this. “And would this series of exhibition fights need a sponsor? An up-and-coming brewery, perhaps?”

“It just might.” He cocked his head, indicating the nearby inn. “Now, go on. Daphne and Phoebe are inside with your flowers and gown. The wedding breakfast is waiting, too. Bruiser planned it, so brace yourself for the worst. But I did personally arrange for the cake.”

“What kind of cake?”

He leaned close and nuzzled her ear. “All the kinds of cake.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Clio, you are the match of my life. You’re the one who challenges me, who meets me blow for blow. Leaves me reeling and wanting more. You push me to be better. I want to spend the rest of my life doing the same for you.” He took her hand and slid the ring on her finger. “Marry me. In a field. In front of all these people.”