Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (7 page)

“You wouldn’t come?” she asked. “Even now, when your father’s gone?”

“I don’t see a reason.”

What a liar. His kiss had been full to bursting with reasons. There was emotion in that embrace they’d shared. Perhaps it wasn’t attraction or affection or love—but it was yearning. He might have rebuffed all her invitations over the years, but it was plain to her now that he hadn’t ignored them completely.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Ellingworth had fallen asleep in the hopcart.

Or
was
he asleep? He was so still, she worried for a moment. But she touched her fingers to his coat and found it warm. She massaged his neck a few strokes. The old dog scrunched his already-scrunched face and snuffled contentedly.

Clio gathered her courage. “I know it’s only been a matter of months since he died, Rafe. And you’ve been alone. When my own mother passed, I would have been lost without my sisters.” She stood tall. “Did you want to talk at all?”

He pulled a face. “No.”

“Are you certain? Sometimes it helps.”

“There’s nothing to help. I stopped thinking of the marquess as my father years ago, and the man never looked on me as a beloved son. I was always the mistake.” He took the cart handle and tipped a glance toward the tower’s upper level. “I still am, apparently. But despite what happened up there, I’m not going to sign your papers. If you mean to show me the door, I—”

“No,” she interrupted. “No, I want you to stay.”

“Don’t be polite. Courtesy’s wasted on me.”

“I’m not being polite.” To prove it, she added, “Drat you.”

Oh, this man. He tried to seem disbelieving. Indifferent. But just a look at him gave everything away. His eyes were daring her to cast him out, begging her to let him stay. Two thin green boundaries of wariness encircling deep, dark wells of . . .

Secret pain.

He tried to deny it, but he was hungry for connection, a sense of belonging in his life. Family. Acceptance. Home. A reason to come around on Christmas and Easter.

Clio could see it. And maybe—just maybe—if she kept him here a bit longer, he’d start to admit that to himself.

“I want you to stay, Rafe. Because we made a bargain. One round doesn’t decide the bout. I need those papers signed, and I’m not giving up.”

Not on herself, and not on him.

“As for the kiss . . .” She hugged herself tight, trying to preserve the last bit of that tender warmth. “You’re right. It was just a kiss. Let’s forget it ever happened.”

Chapter Seven

L
et’
s forget it ever happened.

Easy enough to say. Damn difficult to accomplish. Thus far, Rafe was finding it impossible.

By the time he, Bruiser, and the three Whitmore sisters had gathered in the castle’s jewel box of a chapel the next afternoon, some twenty-two hours had passed. Rafe had thought about, dreamed of, or berated himself for kissing Clio approximately . . . twenty-one-and-a-half of them.

He’d run twelve miles that morning, then taken an ice-cold plunge in the pond.

Hadn’t helped.

He couldn’t cease looking at her. And he had far too much opportunity to stare because she refused to so much as turn his direction today.

She was angry with him. For good reason.

The worst of it was, he rather liked angry Clio. She stood a little taller, hiked her chin a bit higher. Her eyes had fire in them. If he’d been coaching her toward a prizefight, he would have been feeling confident.

Talking her into a wedding, however . . . ?

“Dearly beloved,” Bruiser announced from the front of the chapel, “we are gathered here today to set the scene for this most joyous of occasions.” He rubbed his hands together. “Are you prepared to be dazzled, Miss Whitmore?”

“I . . . don’t rightly know.”

“Miss Whitmore is ready to be dazzled,” Rafe said, glancing in her direction. “She told me so. The other day.”

She looked at him then.

He sent a message with his eyes.
We have a bargain, remember?

“Very well,” she said, sounding resigned. “I’m ready to be dazzled.”

“Excellent.” Bruiser spread his arms wide, hands lifted. “Picture this. We’ll drape the entire chapel in white bunting.”

“Oh, I do love bunting,” Daphne said. “My own wedding suffered from such a dearth of it.”

“You eloped,” Clio pointed out.

Rafe opened his mouth to question this plan. Then he caught himself. Instead, he took a seat in the benches and stared numbly forward, trying to understand how he, the infamous Devil’s Own, had arrived at this moment in his life: sitting in a chapel, in a storybook castle near Charming-Something, Kent, possessing opinions on
bunting.

Good God.

Word of this could never escape these walls.

Daphne charged ahead, sweeping down the center aisle in a flounce of ribbons. “Let’s see. We’ll place fabric bows to festoon the end of each bench. That’s one, two . . .”

“Twelve,” Phoebe said.

The youngest of the Whitmore sisters had seated herself in the pew in front of Rafe’s and pulled a loop of string from her pocket. While the plans went on around her, she worked her fingers through the string and began to make figures with it. Like a game of cat’s cradle, only more elaborate.

“Twelve rows,” she said. “Four-and-twenty benches.” She stretched her fingers wide to reveal a lattice of string shaped like a row of diamonds.

Rafe slid closer and stacked his arms on the back of her pew. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“The string or the counting?”

“Both.”

“Yes,” she said.

Rafe watched her, intrigued. Of the three Whitmore sisters, Phoebe was the one he’d never had much chance to know. She’d been a small child when he and the marquess had their falling-out, and he’d avoided family gatherings ever since. He guessed this string fancy of hers must explain her pet name.

“So four-and-twenty bows,” Daphne said. “And then a swag for each window. How many windows, Phoebe?”

“Fourteen. With thirty-two panes in each.”

Rafe said quietly, “You didn’t even look up.”

“I didn’t need to.” Phoebe peered at her string through a fringe of dark hair. “With numbers, counting, shapes, chances . . . It’s always like that. I just know.”

Now there was a sensation he couldn’t identify with. Learning had never come easily to him.

“What’s that like?” he asked. “To just . . . know things, without trying.”

She looped her fingers through the string. “What’s it like to have the power to knock a full-grown man to the ground?”

“It means I have to be careful how I carry myself. Especially around new acquaintances, or people I don’t like. But it’s useful in certain situations. And sometimes, highly satisfying.”

For the first time, her glance flitted in his direction. “Then I don’t need to explain it.”

As Rafe watched, she stretched her fingers wide to reveal a new figure. The arched opening in the center matched, precisely, the proportions of the stained-glass window before them.

Then she let her fingers slip from the string, and it was gone.

Daphne came to stand before them, making calculations. “So if we need two yards of bunting per swag and three-quarters per bow . . . Come along, kitten. Don’t force me to find a pencil and paper.”

“Forty-six yards,” Phoebe said.

Clio laughed. “You mean to order
forty
-
six
yards of fabric? Are we decorating a chapel or swaddling an elephant? What with the carvings and the stained glass, it’s a lovely setting as it is.”

“Anything lovely can be made loveli
er
,” Daphne said. “Don’t you recall what Mother always said?”

From the look on Clio’s face, she did recall whatever it was their mother always said—but not with any particular fondness.

Bruiser cleared his throat for attention. “Right, then. Carrying on. The chapel will be lovelier. And Miss Whitmore will be the most lovelier part of all.”

“ ‘Loveli
est
,’ Montague,” Daphne corrected.

“Yes, of course. Loveliest.”

Clio looked doubtful. If not miserable. And Rafe knew he was to blame. He’d been an idiot yesterday, kissing her, then telling her it was nothing. Hardly the way to increase a woman’s confidence.

He pulled Bruiser aside. “This isn’t working. You said you could make her excited about the wedding. You promised dazzle.”

“She’ll be dazzled, Rafe.”

He took another glance at Clio. “I’m not seeing it yet.”

“Give it a moment, will you?” Bruiser went to Clio’s side and gently steered her to stand at the end of the aisle. “Just imagine, Miss Whitmore. The rows filled with your family and closest friends. Even better, your vilest enemies. All of them waiting, in breathless anticipation, for you to make your grand appearance.”

“My grand appearance?”

“Yes. In a flowing gown with an exquisite lace veil.”

In the chapel’s small vestibule, there was a narrow table with a lace runner and a small vase of flowers. Bruiser whisked the lace runner from the table and tucked it into Clio’s upswept hair, creating a makeshift veil to cover her face.

Rafe could see her smiling behind it. Smiling at the absurdity, no doubt—but any smile was better than the morose expression she’d been wearing all morning.

“And a bouquet.” Bruiser plucked the flowers from the vase and put them into her hands. “There now.”

She held them away from her body. “They’re dripping.”

“Never mind that. Imagine a velvet carpet spread out before you, strewn with rose petals. And your sisters will precede you as you walk down the aisle.” Bruiser moved first Daphne, then Phoebe into place in front of Clio. “Go stand at the other end, Rafe. Just to the side of the altar. That’s where your place will be.”

Good God. Not this “best man” nonsense again. If there’d been any doubt about Rafe’s unsuitability for that post, his behavior in the tower yesterday should have erased it.

Nonetheless, Rafe did as he was asked, moving to stand just to the side of the altar. For once, Clio seemed to be enjoying the wedding idea. He wasn’t going to ruin that.

“A vicar,” Bruiser muttered to himself. “We need a vicar. Someone solemn, dignified, wearing a collar . . . Aha.”

He plucked Ellingworth from the carpet and lugged him up to the altar, depositing the old, wrinkled bulldog in the place where a vicar would stand. With a wheeze, the dog sank to rest on his belly, head between his two front paws. His wrinkled jowls pooled around his black nose.

Daphne said, “Now all we’re missing is a groom.”

“A sadly familiar sensation,” Clio replied.

“Not to worry. We can remedy that, Miss Whitmore.” Bruiser dashed behind Rafe and prodded him forward, toward the center. “Rafe will stand in for Lord Granville. I’ll be best man.”

“What?” Rafe muttered under his breath. “No. I’m not playing the groom.”

“You’re his brother,” Bruiser whispered back. “You’re the logical choice. I can’t very well send her down the aisle to kiss Ellingworth, can I?”

Rafe cast a glance around the chapel. What the devil had happened to Sir Teddy Cambourne? The man was always where he wasn’t wanted and never around when he might be useful.

“Next,” Bruiser said, “the orchestra will strike up the processional.”

“I don’t know where you mean to fit an orchestra in this chapel,” Clio said from somewhere beneath her tablecloth.

“They’ll squeeze in somewhere.”

“Really, the organ would be good enough.”

“No,” Rafe interjected. “Nothing ‘good enough’ is good enough. Not for this wedding. An orchestra it is.”

“Ready, then? Bridesmaids first.” Bruiser began humming a processional.

Daphne joined in the humming, leading Phoebe down the aisle.

“Now the bride.” When Clio hesitated, Bruiser nudged Rafe. “Hum along, will you?”

“I’m not humming. I don’t hum.”

His trainer jabbed him in the kidney. “Do you want to sell her on this wedding or not?”

Damnation.

Rafe started to hum, too.

Clio gave in, walking down the aisle of the chapel—toward a bulldog, in time with the strains of tuneless humming, draped in a tablecloth and clutching a handful of wilting, dripping flowers. Halfway down, she started to giggle. By the time she reached Rafe at the altar, she was laughing aloud.

“I’m telling you, Miss Whitmore,” Bruiser said. “The guests will rise to their feet in awe.”

“Oh, yes.” She was still laughing as she lifted the tablecloth from her face. “I’m sure they will. With a bride like this before them, how could they not?”

Curse it, Rafe should have known this wouldn’t work. She wasn’t dazzled. She was only amused. It had gone all wrong.

Except, in a strange way, it felt rather right. If he were ever to be married, this was just how he’d want his bride to look as she walked down the aisle to meet him.

Happy. Joyful. Even laughing. Having the time of her life.

But Rafe wasn’t getting married.

And Clio was
not
going to be his bride.

“What time is it?” Phoebe asked. “Mr. Montague, will you check your pocket watch?”

“I . . . er . . .”

Bruiser looked down at the flashy watch fob where it disappeared into his pocket. Rafe would wager it wasn’t attached to a timepiece of any sort.

Rafe pulled out his own watch and opened it. “It’s seventeen minutes past two.”

Phoebe nodded. “You should have the wedding at eighteen minutes past two.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, kitten.” Daphne gave her younger sister a pinch. “No one has a wedding at two o’clock, much less eighteen minutes past. Whyever would they do that?”

“Wait a minute,” Phoebe replied. “You’ll see.”

No sooner had she said this than a shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the altar. A column of luminous, breathtaking gold enveloped Clio in its warmth. Her fair hair gleamed. Her skin glowed. Her blue eyes had the depth and richness of lapis. Even the stupid lace tablecloth was transformed into a thing of delicate beauty.

“Cor,” Bruiser said, forgetting his Montague role completely. “I did promise dazzle, didn’t I?”

Rafe didn’t know about Clio, but he was dazzled.

He was dazzled to his bones.

“What is it?” Clio looked around at them. “You’re all staring. Have I grown a second head?”

“No,” Daphne said, sounding uncharacteristically genuine and kind. “Not at all. Oh, Clio, you’re lovely.”

“Lovelier,” Bruiser corrected.

“Loveliest.” The word was out before Rafe had time to consider it.

He wouldn’t take it back if he could. She was, quite simply, the loveliest thing he’d seen in years. Perhaps in all his life.

“Me?” She laughed and touched her tablecloth veil. “In this?”

Everyone hastened to assure her it was the truth.

“You should see yourself,” Rafe said. “You’re . . .”

He couldn’t find any words to describe it. He hoped the look in his eyes would convey the message. When a man admired a woman this intensely . . . surely it must be palpable.

Her eyes warmed. One corner of her lips lifted. And then, as if he’d called it into being, a wash of pink touched her cheeks.

Thank God. He hadn’t seen that blush since yesterday. He’d missed it.

“Really?” she whispered.

“Found it!” Cambourne came jogging into the chapel, breathless and looking smug. As always. “I knew there had to be one in this place somewhere. Took me all morning searching, and even straight through luncheon, but I finally found one.”

“One what, Teddy?” his wife asked.

The man held up a finger in a signal to wait, then disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he did so slowly. And with a great deal of scraping, clanking racket.

“It’s a ball and chain, see?” He laughed, demonstrating the clamshell shackle and rattling the iron links. “Now that’s what this wedding’s missing.”

And there—in the space of a moment—any small progress they’d made toward dazzling the bride disappeared.

“Have no fear, dumpling,” Cambourne said. “We won’t let him get away.”

Thank you, Sir Teddy Cambourne. You obnoxious prig.

“A ball and chain,” Clio said. “How amusing.”

She was forcing a laugh to be polite. Because she was kind, and she wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted. Even the man who’d just slighted her.

The earth had turned, and the shaft of sunlight had moved on, leaving her looking pale and small, draped in a tablecloth and clutching a soggy bouquet.

Rafe was furious. The brute in him was rising. He wanted to shake Bruiser, punch that smirking fop Cambourne in the jaw, throw Clio over his shoulder, and carry her somewhere else. Somewhere far away from all these fools who paid more attention to malicious gossips and scandal sheets than to the obvious loveliness—inside and out—of their own sister.