Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (5 page)

She thought of his spartan warehouse, with its humble cot and sawdust floor. All those slimy raw eggs.

He needed more enjoyment in his life. A home and warm comforts and amusements that didn’t end in bloodshed. To live like a human rather than a beast bred for fighting.

“So where does this secret passage lead?” he asked.

“Go through it and find out.” She arched a brow. “Unless you’re frightened.”

He pulled himself to full height. “I defended the title of Britain’s heavyweight champion for four years. If there’s anything living in that passage,
it
should be frightened.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose even the spiders will scatter at their first sight of the Devil’s Own.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Where’d you hear that name?”

“Oh, I know all the things they call you. Brawlin’ Brandon. Lord of Ruin. The Devil’s Own.”

“You’ve been following my career,” he said. “What business does a proper, well-bred young lady have, following the world of illegal prizefighting?”

She was suddenly, unaccountably nervous. “It’s not that I follow
you.
I follow the newspapers. You’re often in them.”

Clio had always paid close attention to current events. And to world history, geography, languages, and more. Her mother had insisted. A diplomat’s wife needed to be apprised of all the world’s happenings.

Strictly speaking, a diplomat’s wife probably didn’t need to be apprised of all the happenings in underworld boxing, but Clio hadn’t been able to resist.

Rafe had always been such a source of fascination to her. In the middle of their polite, manicured garden square of a society, there had grown this wild, rebellious vine that refused to be tamed. She wanted to understand him. She wanted to know why he’d walked away from that world, and where he’d gone, and whether he was happy there.

Caring about Rafe Brandon seemed a dangerous habit, but it was one she couldn’t seem to quit.

“Speaking of names,” he said, “since when do you go by ‘dumpling’?”

She winced. “Since Daphne married, and her husband decided to give his new sisters-in-law pet names. Phoebe is kitten, and I’m dumpling.”

“Stupid name.”

“I can’t disagree. But I don’t know how to tell him to cease using it, either.”

“I’ll tell you how. Just say, ‘Don’t call me dumpling.’ ”

It wasn’t so easy. Not for her. She moved to enter the passageway. “Are we going to follow this tunnel or not?”

He held her back. “This time, I’ll lead the way.”

She handed him the lamp. They ducked and entered the tunnel. The way was narrow, and the ceiling was low. Rafe had to hunch and twist to thread himself through the smallest spots.

“Why do you do it?” The question tumbled out of her. She asked because he was here, and they were alone—and she could. “Why do you fight?”

His answer was matter-of-fact. “I was cut off with no funds or inheritance. I needed a career.”

“I know that. But surely there are other ways to earn a living. Less violent ways.”

“Ah.” He paused. “I see where this is going. You want to know my secret pain.”

“Secret pain?”

“Oh, yes. My inner demons. The dark current of torment washing away little grains of my soul. That’s what you’re after. You think that if you keep me here in your pretty castle and cosset me with sixteen pillows, I’ll learn to love myself and cease submitting my body to such horrific abuse.”

Clio bit her lip, grateful it was too dark for him to see her blush. If she’d been flamingo pink the other day, she must be fuchsia now. “I don’t know where you get these ideas.”

He chuckled. “From every woman I’ve ever met, that’s where. You’re not the first to try it, and you won’t be the last.”

“How disappointing. Can I at least be the best?”

“Perhaps.” He stopped and twisted around in the tunnel, so that he faced her. “Do you want to know my deep, dark secret, Clio? If I were to unburden my soul to you, could you truly bear it?”

She must have quivered, or shuddered, or something—and he mistook it for a nod of assent.

“Here it is.”

She held her breath as he leaned close to whisper in her ear. The back of her neck prickled. His deep voice resonated in her bones.

“I fight,” he said, “because I’m good at it. And because it makes me money.” He turned away. “That’s the truth.”

Clio wasn’t convinced.

Oh, she didn’t doubt that he spoke some of the truth—but she suspected it wasn’t
all
of the truth. There was something more, something he wasn’t willing to admit. Not to her, and perhaps not even to himself.

Soon the passageway curved and began to slope upward.

They opened a panel and emerged into a narrow alcove.

“Where the devil are we?” He was so broad and tall, he filled almost the entire space.

“Near the front entryway.” Clio squeezed herself into a corner. “This is my favorite part of the castle.”

“This.” He plucked a bit of moss from a jutting stone. “This is your favorite part.”

She tilted her gaze upward. “See that lever up there?”

“Aye.”

“Can you reach it?”

He reached up and grabbed the ancient iron handle. His giant hand fit around the lever as if it were made for him.

“Go on, then. Give it a pull.”

Uncertainty drew his brows together. “What happens when I pull it?”

“You don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“If the surprise is a spike through the chest, I do.”

“Trust me. You’re going to like this.” Clio went up on tiptoe and put both her hands over his one, pulling down with all her weight.

The centuries-old mechanism groaned and creaked.

“Now come see. Hurry!”

She waved him out of the alcove just in time to watch. From a slot above the archway, an iron grate began to descend. Like a massive, sharp-toothed jaw biting through stone.

“
Get back.
”

Rafe’s arm whipped around her waist. With a gruff curse, he yanked her backward, well away from the gate as it crashed into place.

The echo reverberated through them both. Exhilaration pulsed through her veins. Clio loved that sound. That sound declared this wasn’t just a house.

It was a stronghold.

“Well?” she asked. “Isn’t that something?”

“Oh, it’s . . . something.”

“You sound displeased.” She turned to face him. “I thought you’d like it. Do you know how many castles in England still have a functioning portcullis?”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “But it can’t be a great number.”

He still hadn’t let her go. His arm remained lashed about her waist, protective and crushing. And his heartbeat pounded in his chest, sparring with hers.

Goodness. He’d truly been frightened. Coming to chest to chest with the proof of it . . . Well, it made her feel safe in some ways and utterly defenseless in others.

“Rafe,” she whispered. “It wasn’t going to hit me.”

“
I
wasn’t going to take chances.”

“You needn’t worry so much. You do realize, if I end the engagement—or if something ends me—Piers will find another bride. The ladies will queue up by the score. I assure you, I’m very replaceable.”

He shook his head.

“No, truly. I know our fathers desired a connection between the two families. But they’re both gone now, and I don’t think they’d—”

He put his thumb to her lips, shushing her. “That’s absurd. You are not replaceable.”

“I’m not?” The words were muffled by his thumb.

“Hell, no.” His thumb slid over her lips, and his gaze seemed to hover there, too. His voice dropped to a low, impatient growl that simmered in her knees. “I swear to you, Clio. Somehow, I’m going to make you see—”

Footsteps clattered from the direction of the corridor. Oh, drat.

At once, Rafe stepped back, releasing her.

No. No!

Somehow, I’m going to make you see . . .

What, precisely? What was he going to make her see? His point of view? The error of her ways? His collection of seashells and sealing wax?

Now she’d lie awake all night, wondering.

And thinking of his arm lashed about her waist. His touch on her lips.

“Good heavens.” Daphne’s high, unmistakable voice rang down the corridor. “What was that unholy racket?”

“Just the portcullis.” Clio fluttered one hand in the direction of the gate. “Lord Rafe wanted a demonstration.”

“Yes. And Miss Whitmore was good enough to oblige me. Despite how eager she is to begin on the wedding preparations.” He gave her a pointed look. “For the remainder of the week.”

Clio had no choice now. She would suffer through a few days of wedding plans. What else was there to do? She couldn’t announce she’d broken the engagement unless the dissolution papers were signed. And the days had to be passed in one fashion or another.

In fact, as she succumbed to the inexorable pull of the drawing room, Clio began to worry this task wouldn’t take a full week. Surely a simple country wedding could be planned in a day or two.

How difficult could it be?

Chapter Five

I
’ve drawn up a list of seventeen tasks. And a schedule.”

Rafe would say one thing for Phoebe Whitmore. She was startlingly efficient. She presented this list at breakfast the next morning before he’d even touched his coffee.

How old was the girl now? Sixteen or so? If Rafe had drawn up a list of tasks at Phoebe’s age, he could only imagine it would have looked thusly:

1.
Skip lessons.

2.
Chase girls.

3.
Any excuse for a fistfight.

4.
Is that a squirrel?

End of list.

As he sat down to the table, a servant placed a bowl containing three speckled eggs beside his plate. “For your coffee, my lord.”

He tugged his ear, bemused. Clio didn’t miss anything, did she? He didn’t know how to take it, that she’d been thinking of him that morning. Doing him this small kindness. He’d woken thinking of her, too.

But his thoughts were anything but nice.

In his imagination, she was flushed and breathless with laughter, and they’d been . . . racing, in a fashion.

A horizontal fashion.

His blood stirred, just at the memory.

Damn it. Ten miles, he had run that morning. Ten miles through the misty Kentish countryside should have left him too sapped of energy to contemplate carnality.

He wasn’t quite sapped enough.

No, he could do with a touch more sapping.

Daphne snatched the list from her sister. “We’ll need to send to London for many of these items on the list. Sample gowns for fitting. Bunting and ribbons for the décor. For the invitations, fine paper and ink.”

Clio looked up. “I have ink.”

“You don’t have the
right
ink. But while we’re waiting on supplies, there are some things we can tackle.”

“Toast?”

Daphne kept her gaze on her list. “No, no. The toasts and speeches can wait. Though we should start testing the punch recipe.”

“I meant this kind.” With a smile, Clio passed a plate of white and brown toast points.

“Oh.” Daphne took a point of white and immediately leveled it at Rafe, like a buttered weapon. “But come to think of it, my lord, you should start writing a draft.”

“A draft of what?”

“The toast. You
are
the best man.”

Then she turned away, giving some direction to her husband, who was moving down the sideboard and loading two plates as he went.

Not this again. Rafe had no intention of performing any best-man duties at his brother’s wedding. They’d scarcely spoken in a decade, and Rafe didn’t expect they’d be mixing much in years to come, either. The only thing more uncomfortable and inappropriate than harboring lust for his brother’s intended bride would be harboring lust for his brother’s wife.

No, he was only here to make certain the wedding took place. Then he’d hand over the marquessate duties and get back to
his
life.
His
career.
His
title.

His
women.

Not that there’d been many women of late. No doubt that was part of his sapping problem.

“Today, we’ll meet with the vicar to start planning the ceremony,” Daphne announced. “After that, the menus.”

“Must we do all that today?” Clio asked. “You’ve only just arrived, and I never had the chance to show you about. I’d love for you to see the castle grounds.”

Cambourne glanced to the window, dismayed. “It looks like rain. And these are new boots.”

“We don’t have time for these things,” Daphne said. “There are seventeen items on Phoebe’s list. Seventeen.”

“Are you sure there aren’t sixteen, my lady?” a new voice inquired. “Or perhaps it’s eighteen.” Bruiser leaned over her shoulder, examining the list with the aid of his quizzing glass.

If that quizzing glass survived the week without meeting the heel of Rafe’s boot, it would be a miracle.

“Seventeen,” he pronounced at length. “I ought to never have doubted you, Miss Phoebe. Where would we be without your sterling accomplishment in counting?”

“What about flowers?” Clio asked. “Are flowers one of the seventeen items?”

“But of course they are.”

“Then we can compromise. We’ll all take a stroll in the castle gardens, and I can decide which blooms I like for the bouquet.”

Rafe supposed flowers were as good a start as anything.

As they made their way toward the summer garden, Cambourne approached him. The man dug an elbow into Rafe’s side in a manner that Rafe guessed was meant to be chummy.

He didn’t want to be chums.

“Say, Brandon. I was a few years behind your brother at Eton. But I don’t recall crossing paths with you there.”

“I wasn’t there. Not for long, anyway.” Rafe hadn’t lasted one term with the snobbish prigs at Eton. “Sent down for fighting.”

“Right-o. ’Course you were.”

It was mostly the truth.

Rafe had never taken to book learning. He preferred to be out of doors, riding his horse or chasing clouds of starlings from the fields.

He’d struggled through those early years with tutors at home, but by Eton he’d fallen behind other boys his age. He’d been embarrassed to sit in lecture, not having completed his work for the day, unable to focus on what went on around him. He was an undisciplined, unruly scamp, his masters agreed. So Rafe played the role they assigned him. He started fights, and he won them. He’d rather be sent down for fighting than stupidity.

That elbow again. “Do you know,” Cambourne said, “I dabbled in a bit of pugilism myself, in my day.”

“You don’t say.”

“Champion at the club, two years running.” He thrust his tongue in his cheek. “I say, how about it, Brandon? Fancy a few rounds of sparring? I wouldn’t mind testing myself against you.”

Rafe sized up the man. A solidly built fellow, with a florid complexion, scarlet waistcoat to match, and a smug grin. What with his comments to Clio at dinner last night, the man had all but painted a target on his jaw.

Rafe would have enjoyed punching that face. Immensely.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Oh-ho-ho.” The man boxed Rafe’s biceps with a clumsy jab that might as well have been a fleabite. “Not in top form anymore? Afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of the ladies?”

No. I’m afraid of killing you in front of the ladies, you idiot.

Rafe would never spar with an untutored amateur—and especially not with a man he personally disliked. The danger for his opponent would be too great. He enjoyed cultivating a dangerous, brutish reputation, but he stopped well short of maiming.

Anger might have made him a fighter, but discipline had made him a champion. The best thing boxing had done for him was teaching him when
not
to punch. Without the sport, Rafe probably would have landed in prison by now. If not a grave.

“This isn’t the time or place for sparring,” he said. “We’re here so Miss Whitmore can choose her flowers.”

No sooner had Rafe spoken the words than Clio lifted a clutch of blossoms.

“Well, that’s done,” she declared. “Now we can take a wander over the meadows. There are deer in the park.”

He crossed to her. “You can’t be finished already.”

“It appears that I am. Mr. Montague was kind enough to cut these for me.”

He stared at the floral hodgepodge in her hands. A few of the buds weren’t even open yet, and others had shed half their petals. He saw roses and . . . some white flowers and some yellow, clumpy things. He didn’t know the names.

“You promised to cooperate with the wedding plans,” he said.

“And I am cooperating.”

Before he could argue back, Daphne joined them.

She took the flowers from Clio’s hand and tutted. “This won’t do. Horrid. Hideous. And wrong, all wrong. Montague, do you know nothing of the language of flowers?”

There was a language of flowers? Ye gods. Rafe didn’t even know what to call them in English.

“Each blossom imparts a different message. And this dreadful posy is saying all the wrong things.” One by one, Daphne plucked the flowers from the bunch and cast them to the ground. “Yellow roses are for envy.” Away went the roses. “Primrose? That’s inconstancy.” The primroses dropped to the grass. “And tansy . . .” She scowled. “A declaration of war.”

“There’s a flower to serve as a declaration of war?” Clio plucked one of the yellow, puffy flowers from the ground and turned to Rafe. “How very interesting. I wonder if we sent a bouquet of these to Napoleon. Or maybe it’s like calling a man out with a slap of the glove?”

“If a man slapped me with a tansy,” Rafe said, “I wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

“What if a woman did?”

“Well, then I’d pay her double.”

She turned away, but not before he saw the corner of her lips curl up and her cheeks go pink. An absurd swell of triumph rose in his chest.

What was it about those blushes of hers? He never could resist provoking them. When he saw that color bloom on her cheek, it made him feel he’d done something right. Like a little banner hoisted with the words writ,
Well Done, You.

“Now wait, wait.” Bruiser angled his way into their group, retrieving the rest of the discarded blooms from the ground. “I am, in actuality, well versed in the language of flowers.” He stood tall and tugged his waistcoat straight. “The Viennese dialect.”

Good God. Rafe couldn’t wait for this.

Daphne looked skeptical. “The Viennese dialect?”

“Let us not forget, my lady, Lord Granville has been living for several years on the Continent.” Bruiser held a yellow rose aloft. “In Austria, these roses speak not of envy, but of devotion.” He added the primrose to the bunch. “These, tenderness of spirit.”

Daphne crossed her arms. “And the tansy?”

“Ah. The tansy. The tansy says—”

“I wish to sexually reproduce.”

This interjection came from Phoebe, who had heretofore been silent.

She had everyone’s attention now.

Bruiser didn’t miss a beat. “Well, yes. In the low country, perhaps. In the high country, it’s an invitation to yodel.”

“I wish to sexually reproduce,” Phoebe repeated. “That’s what the tansy says. That’s what all blossoms say. Any plant that produces a flower is seeking to procreate.”

“Oh, kitten,” Daphne said. “Really.”

She and Bruiser moved on, discussing the merits of hydrangea and nasturtiums.

Rafe drew Clio aside, tugging her in the opposite direction. “Forget all of this. We need to order hothouse blooms. Orchids or lilies or . . .” He churned the air with one hand. “Whatever else is finest.”

“What’s wrong with these?” She lifted her pathetic bouquet. “I think they’re cheerful.”

“There’s nothing exactly wrong with them.”

“Well, then. They’ll do.”

“No. They won’t.” He plucked the posy from her hand. “That’s my point. These might be good enough for a vase on the windowsill, but this is your wedding day.”

“Perhaps I’m satisfied with ‘good enough.’ ” She took the flowers.

He took them back. “
I’m
not satisfied with ‘good enough.’ ”

“You said it’s my wedding. You said I could have whatever I wanted.”

“I want you to want something better.” She reached to take back the posy, but he refused to let go. He flexed his arm, drawing her close. “You should have the best. Always.”

He held her firm. She didn’t pull away.

And the world shrank around them, to something the size of two stubborn heartbeats and a wilted bouquet.

It must have been the arguing, because Rafe rarely felt this way outside a fight. Sharp. Intent. Powerful. Aware of everything at once. The petal pink flush of her skin against her white frock. The sleekness of her wrist contrasted with the clinging flower stems. The breeze that caught a stray curl of her hair and twirled it in a dance. The tender sweetness of violets.

Only there weren’t any violets in the bouquet. Which meant he was breathing in the tender sweetness of Clio herself. The scent of the French-milled soap she used in the bath, or maybe the pomanders she tucked between her folded underthings.

He shouldn’t be thinking of her underthings. Much less envisioning those crisp, white underthings on her otherwise-naked body.

Or worst of all, picturing them as a heap on the floor.

Eyes. He kept his gaze stubbornly locked with hers. But that wasn’t safe, either. Her eyes were the clear, brilliant blue of mountain lakes. Water that came pure and sweet and deep, and could drown a man in seconds.

Already, he felt himself leaning forward. As if to bend his head and drink.

Gods save me.

And for the first time in his life, some deity actually answered his prayer.

His deliverance came in the form of a piercing shriek.

At the sound of her sister screaming, Clio wrenched her gaze from Rafe’s. A strange, smarting pain accompanied the motion. As if she’d pulled her tongue from a block of ice too swiftly, leaving a small piece of herself behind.

She wheeled in place, looking for the crisis.

In the center of the summer garden, Daphne stood pale and utterly immobile, like a piece of garden statuary that had begun shrieking in outrage. “No.
No!
Stop, I say!”

Clio started toward her sister, searching for the source of danger. “Is it a wasp? A snake?”

Rafe said, “It’s the dog.”

“Oh.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

Evidently she wasn’t the only one who’d mistaken Daphne for statuary.

Ellingworth was urinating on her foot.

“No!” her sister shrieked. “Stop! Stop it this instant, you odious beast.”

Having finished his task, Ellingworth shuffled off and disappeared under a hedge. An agitated Sir Teddy gathered his wife, and together they began walking back to the castle. Phoebe and Bruiser followed.

Clio fought back laughter. “I really shouldn’t find this amusing, should I?”

“No, that’s good,” Rafe said. “If you’re amused, I don’t have to be sorry.”

“We’d better find the dog, poor old dear. It’s going to rain.”

Distant thunder rumbled in agreement.