Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (12 page)

He shrugged her off.

“No, truly.”

She dashed in front of him and put a hand to his chest, holding him in place.

His heartbeat throbbed against her palm. Every beat pushed excitement through her veins.

“I can start by telling you you’re stubborn and impulsive and prideful. And generous and protective and passionate. In public, you ride like the devil and fill out a pair of buckskin breeches like pure liquid sin, but in private, you behave as though you’ve joined a monastic order. You’re kind to ugly dogs, and you’re patient with awkward sisters. Your kisses are sweet. And your life is worth something.” She fought back the emotion rising in her throat. “I’ll tell you who you are, Rafe. Anytime you find yourself in doubt. And I won’t even leave you bleeding.”

He glanced at the horizon. “Not outwardly, perhaps. There are places inside me you’re beating to a pulp.”

“Good.”

It was only fair. He was cutting her heart to ribbons, too.

“We should be going,” he said. “They’ll be waiting on us. You’re to be fitted for wedding gowns this afternoon.”

He still meant to put her through that? “I wish I’d drunk more beer.”

“Are you begging off?”

“Oh, no.” Clio smoothed the front of her frock. “I’m not giving you any excuse to back out of our agreement. Today, I’ll step into a few frilly gowns. Tomorrow, you let me off the leash.”

“For the last time,” he said, “you’re not the dog.”

She muttered under her breath, “
Woof.
”

Chapter Twelve

C
ome out already,” Daphne called. “It’s been ages.”

Rafe was impatient, too. He, Daphne, Teddy, Phoebe, Bruiser, and Ellingworth all sat in the drawing room. Waiting.

Clio was with the dressmakers in the adjoining chamber. Dressing.

That was the idea, anyhow. Supposedly, they were going to be treated to a viewing of three or four gowns, so that Clio might choose her favorite.

A half hour had passed, and she hadn’t appeared in even one. Had something gone wrong?’

He tapped one finger on the arm of his chair. Then he began to jostle his knee. Sitting like this was torture for him. Always had been. He didn’t know how “gentlemen of leisure” like Cambourne could stand passing whole days and months and years this way.

He stared at those doors hard enough to bore a hole through the oak.

Come out, damn it.

Eventually, Rafe couldn’t sit waiting anymore. He excused himself and went into the corridor, where he prowled the full length of the Savonnerie carpet. Back and forth, like a tethered beast.

This had to work. The gown fitting was the best chance of salvaging the engagement. The
last
chance
,
to wit.

Even an ill-mannered brute like Rafe knew that the gown was the most crucial part of this enterprise. He just hoped his trainer was right about the quality of the materials and workmanship. This would need to be a gown with silk so fine and lace so intricate that when Clio saw her reflection in the looking glass, she would want to never take it off.

And then she’d
have
to get married.

That, or become a batty old spinster who roamed her castle in a decaying wedding gown. Rafe didn’t think the latter would suit Clio, but he wasn’t going to mention the possibility, just in case.

Thump.

The sound drew him to a halt.

Strange. Perhaps the servants were moving things.

Or maybe the place was haunted. Any castle worth its parapets ought to have at least one ghost.

Then it happened again.

Thump.

Followed by a stifled cry of pain.

Both sounds were coming from behind a set of double doors. If he wasn’t mistaken, that would be the chamber designated as Clio’s dressing room.

He was at the door in seconds. “Miss Whitmore?” He pounded on the door. “Clio. Are you well?”

After endless moments, the door opened a fraction. He spied an inch-wide slice of Clio’s face through the gap. One blue eye and a quirk of pink lips.

“Can I help you, Rafe?”

“Yes, you can bloody well help me. You can tell me what the devil’s going on. What’s been taking so long, and what was that sound? Is someone moving the furnishings?”

“No, I . . .” He could tell she was struggling for breath, composing her words.

Then it
was
Clio’s shriek he’d heard. Her cheek was red, and her eyes—well, the one eye he could see—looked teary. Damn it.

He lowered his voice. “Tell me what’s happened. Now.”

“It’s nothing. I promise you.”

“Then open the door so I can see for myself.”

“Rafe, I’m fine. Please don’t mind me.”

“I mind you. You’ve been in there for ages. I heard you cry out. Your face is red. You’re scarcely able to speak. And there were thumps.”

“Thumps?”

“Maybe clunks.”

Her mouth quirked. “Clunks.”

“
Noises.
” His hand balled in a fist. “I heard noises. You’re visibly overset. Something’s going on in there. Either you open the door, or I break it down.”

That single blue eye widened. “You’d truly break down the door?”

“You saw me today in the tavern. If I thought you were in danger, I’d break through the wall.”

That single blue eye blinked.

She must know this about him by now. He enjoyed a bit of witty banter as much as the next man, but when his blood started pumping, he couldn’t bother with words. What came out of him was action.

“Very well. Since you insist.” She stepped back, opening the door. “See?”

Oh, he saw.

He saw a lot of her that he probably shouldn’t be seeing.

She was dressed in a gown of delicate ivory lace. However, the lace was fitted so tightly that it was stretched to the point of transparency. Her breasts overflowed the bodice in twin fleshy scoops, and . . .

And his gaze got rather stuck in the dark, mysterious valley between them. The rest of the gown could have been more lace . . . or tweed or crimson velvet. Or on fire, for all he knew.

“I . . . That’s . . .” He had no words. None that he could utter aloud.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she asked. “This is your idea of a wedding gown?”

“Not particularly. Or generally.”

That gown was entirely unsuitable for walking down the aisle of a church. However, when it came to the wedding night . . .

Damnation. His thoughts could not stray there. His gaze needed tethering, too.

Eyes, Rafe.

The other pair.

She said, “And here I worried you might succeed in overwhelming me with elegance and finery.”

“It’s not . . . bad.”

She leveled a gaze at him. “I look like I’ve been cast as an angel in the bawdy-house nativity play.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Someone has to get us sinners to church.”

“I can’t even move.” She took three stuttering steps in demonstration, waddling into the corridor like an arthritic duck. “The
thump
you heard was me falling over.”

“Twice?”

“Yes, twice.” She grimaced. “Thank you for rubbing salt in the wound.”

“Try another gown, then.”

“I did. I tried them all. They’re all too small.”

“But I thought Bruiser specially requested them based on your measurements.”

“I didn’t give him my measurements. And surely Anna would have . . .” Confusion drew little furrows in her brow. Then some sudden realization ironed them flat. “Daphne. Of course. This would be just the sort of trick she’d pull.”

“Why would she pull any tricks? I thought she was all aflutter about planning the wedding.”

“Oh, she is. This is just her way of reminding me that I . . .”

“That you what?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. I can tell it matters.”

A hint of sadness had crept into her eyes. It made Rafe want to break things. Then arrange the pieces in a barricade around her.

“There you are.” Daphne appeared in the corridor. “Oh, Clio. You do look lovely.”

Clio spoke through clenched teeth. “I look ridiculous. You gave Mr. Montague the wrong measurements.”

“No, I didn’t. I gave him just the
right
measurements.”

“But the gown doesn’t fit her,” Rafe said.

“It
will.
” Daphne patted her older sister on the cheek. “You’ll see. What with the bridal nerves and all the work to be done, this will be a perfect fit by your wedding day. And if that’s not quite enough . . . ? I’m here to help. We’ll bring back Mother’s game.”

Mother
’s game?
What the devil was this about?

“I . . .” Clio’s voice broke. “Excuse me, I . . . I need to go upstairs.”

“But you’ve only tried one gown,” Daphne said.

“It’s more than enough for today.” She turned and shuffled down the corridor, heading for the entrance hall.

“You’re not peevish, are you?” Daphne called after her. “I meant to help, you know.” She looked to Rafe, then shrugged and smiled. “She’ll thank me later. You’ll see. From time to time, we all need a little motivation.”

Motivation
.

Rafe was feeling motivated. To do just what, he didn’t know. But he was highly motivated to do . . . something. Anything. His blood thundered through his veins.

And then, all the way from the entrance hall, Clio gave him a purpose.

Thunk.

“Curse this wretched gown.”

Clio had suffered a great many mortifications in the past eight years. Smiling through the weeks following Daphne’s elopement, knowing that everyone was whispering about whether it would
ever
be Clio’s turn. Then there was the first time she’d seen herself called “Miss Wait-More” in the
Prattler.
That had been miserable, too—surpassed only by the day she’d seen the list of wagers from the betting book at White’s. Dozens of England’s most influential gentlemen, making her elusive wedding date a matter for their sport.

But this? This went beyond everything.

She’d never been more humiliated in her life. Embarrassed by her own sister, desperate to make her escape, hampered by this diabolical gown, and reduced to waddling down the corridor.

Until the hem tripped her, of course.

Then she took tumble number three.

Clio blinked away a scalding tear. Truly, could this be any worse?

“Don’t get up. I’m here.”

Rafe’s voice.

Yes. It could be worse. The most attractive, compelling man of her acquaintance, and the only man to ever look at her with desire in his eyes, could be present to witness it all.

Now
her humiliation was complete.

He knelt at her side. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Only my pride.” She tried to regain her feet.

“So this is why you wouldn’t eat the cake yesterday.” He took her elbow, steadying her. “You can’t be worried Piers will judge you on your measurements?”

“I’m a woman.
Everyone
judges us on our measurements.”

And Clio’s mother, God rest her, had never missed an opportunity to remind her of it. Her mother was the daughter of an earl, expected to make an excellent match; yet she’d condescended to marry a naval officer of common birth. If only she’d been a little less stout, she’d once told Clio in confidence . . . she thought she might have married a peer.

Mama was determined her daughters would not fall victim to the same mistake. Daphne and Phoebe were naturally svelte, but Clio’s figure had always tended toward curves.

“My mother had this . . . Well, she called it a game. We started playing it just as soon as I’d been engaged to Piers. She would have my dinner sent up to the room on a tray. Each course on a separate plate. And then she would drill me on whatever we’d studied that afternoon. French grammar, Bavarian etiquette, the correct forms of address for Hanoverian royalty. She’d ask me question after question, and for each mistake I made, she took one dish from my tray, starting with dessert. Some nights, I made so many mistakes that I had no dinner at all. Only broth. Other nights, I had three or four courses. But I never managed to keep my dessert.”

“That ‘game’ doesn’t strike me as amusing.”

“There was one dinner I particularly remember. On the tray was a slice of toffee-nut cake. My favorite. I remember staring at it so intently, I could taste the browned sugar and the buttery walnuts. I was so careful as she quizzed me. I answered every question perfectly. No mistakes. I was giddy with victory. At last. And then, while I was sitting there simmering with triumph, she took that slice of cake from my tray.”

“Why would she do that, if you didn’t make any mistakes?”

“Because I was the mistake,” Clio said, not bothering to hide her emotions any longer. “I was wrong, just for being me. I was growing too heavy.”

Rafe cursed. “Your mother was a fool. Your sister, too.”

“My mother wanted the best for me. And I know Daphne means well. We’re family.”

“Just because they’re family doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you. It means they know how to cut deep.”

She didn’t answer.

“What’s more,” he said, “they’ve lied to you. Because you’re not heavy.”

“You don’t need to say that to preserve my feelings.”

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

“But I—”

He sighed gruffly. “You asked for this.”

He braced one hand on her back, then slipped the other under her legs. And with one effortless motion, he swept Clio straight off her feet.

Into his arms.

His large, massive, all-the-words-for-big arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.” He bounced her in his arms, and her stomach took a brief flight. “You’re not heavy. Not to me.”

Oh. Oh, mercy.

He took her breath away, the rogue. And for long, dizzying moments, he refused to give it back.

Clio was certain she’d never beheld a more handsome man in her life. She’d always known Rafe to be attractive, virile, dangerous, desirable. But from this close vantage, in the light of day . . . Her gaze skipped from the strong angle of his jaw, to the proud cut of his cheekbone, to the vibrant green of his eyes, framed by lashes dark as ink.

He was beautiful. Utterly, masculinely beautiful. She didn’t know how she’d never seen it before. She supposed he hadn’t let her close enough to see.

“Very well,” she managed. “Now that you’ve made your point, you can set me down.”

“Not a chance.” He adjusted her weight in his arms and began carrying her up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. “You’ll never get up all these stairs in that gown.”

“I’m not going to treat you like a beast of burden.”

“I might be a beast,” he said, pausing on the landing, “but you could never be a burden. Just tell me where to go.”

She relented when they reached the top of the stairs. “That way.” Then, as they reached a bend in the corridor, “Turn here.”

Rafe wheeled on his right boot, following her direction.

“My chamber is almost at the end. A little farther.” By now, she was enjoying this so much, she rather wished it were miles away. “There. The one on the right. Mind the doorjamb.”

He tucked her head to his chest and nudged the door open with his boot.

They burst into the room, and Rafe suddenly stopped.

Clio wondered if the image had struck him the way it had done her. How this must appear: Him, carrying her into the bedchamber. Her, dressed in an ivory lace gown.

They looked like newlyweds.

And there, looming before them like a raft of inevitability, was Clio’s four-post bed.