Castles Ever After 02 Say Yes to the Marquess (24 page)

“You lose interest.”

He shrugged. “That’s the best way I can describe it. Yes.”

She bit her lip and regarded him. “Are you worried you’ll lose interest in me?”

“That’s different. You’re different.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked.

“How can you even question it?”

The words came out too forcefully. They sounded angry, even to his ears.

His conscience—that living, breathing spirit of a lifetime’s accumulated sins—was screaming at him now. Retreat, it said, before he went too far. Said something he didn’t mean.

“Fighting is who I am,” he said. “If you want a man who’ll be happy pushing papers around a desk . . . maybe you
should
marry Piers.”

As soon as he heard his own words, he regretted them.

Rafe, you idiot.

She winced. “I can’t believe you said that.”

He rubbed his face with one hand. He wished he could claim the same surprise. His whole life was a string of rash words and actions he wished he could take back. Last night, those impulses had worked out in ways that pleased her. But he’d known it was only a matter of time before he cocked it up.

There was just too much of the devil in him. He was doomed to push away the people he loved most. He would never be able to hold anything good.

If he lost Clio now, that would be no worse than he deserved.

Hell, as far as she was concerned, it would probably be for the best.

“Listen,” he said, “I shouldn’t have . . .”

And then—just because it was exactly what Rafe’s life didn’t need that moment—Bruiser appeared in the doorway.

“There you two are. I trust the ball was enjoyable. I”—Bruiser clapped his hands together—“have good news.”

Rafe doubted it. He made throat-slashing,
shut-it
gestures.

Bruiser, naturally, ignored them.

“First, Miss Whitmore, I’m happy to report the engagement ring has, er . . . reappeared.”

“Really?” Clio said. “What interesting timing. We were just discussing the wedding plans. Weren’t we, Rafe?”

Damn it.

“And second,” Bruiser went on, “your new gowns have arrived from London. They’re made expressly for you, and they are magnificent. The dressmakers are waiting in the sitting room.”

Rafe shook his head. “She doesn’t want to—”

“Oh, but I do.” Her cool gaze met Rafe’s. “I do, Mr. Montague. I can’t wait to try the gowns.”

Chapter Twenty-four

I
n actuality, being fitted for yet more flouncy gowns was the last thing Clio wanted to do this morning. But she and Rafe needed some space from each other, and this seemed the best way.

After an entire week of telling her she couldn’t break an engagement she’d entered into at the age of seventeen . . . They had one argument, and Rafe was calling off
theirs
?

It was a touch alarming, how quickly his mind leapt from the realm of “mild disagreement” to “irreparable rift.”

Maybe you should marry Piers.

Of all the things to say.

But she knew he didn’t mean it. And she should have known better than to put him on the spot like that, in a setting so far removed from his strengths.

He’d warned her, hadn’t he? Ballrooms, drawing rooms, schoolrooms, offices . . . When he felt ill at ease, something brash would result.

But what she admired in him was that Rafe understood this about himself. He’d found his own ways to not only succeed but flourish. If she wanted to build a life with him, she would need to understand and respect that, too.

She owed him an apology, but she doubted he was ready to hear it yet. To pass the time, she might as well try on a pretty gown.

As she was making her way to the sitting room, she heard the coach pulling into the drive. One by one, her family alighted from the carriage.

Clio rushed to greet them in the entrance hall. “Phoebe. How are you?”

“Exceedingly fatigued.” With that, her youngest sister disappeared in the direction of the library.

Well. Clio could stop worrying, she supposed. That was Phoebe as usual.

Daphne and Teddy came in next.

Clio curtsied to her brother-in-law. He jammed his hat down to shade his bruised face, barely acknowledging her with a nod before proceeding upstairs.

Daphne sidled up to explain. “Clio, you had better be grateful. We overstayed our welcome with the Penningtons in the worst way.”

“You, overstaying a welcome? How difficult to believe.”

“I was determined that we would be the last guests at the ball,” she said. “We had to manage the rumors, you know. Teddy was a saint on your behalf. He laughed off the punch as a bit of sport between friends. We told every person who asked that you swooned and Lord Rafe escorted you home.” Her sister regarded her closely. “That
is
what happened, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

The events didn’t unfold in exactly the order Daphne might assume, and a great deal more had happened besides. But strictly speaking, it was a truthful statement.

“Then good,” her sister said, inhaling sharply. “That’s that.”

Clio didn’t fool herself. She knew Daphne and Teddy’s scrambling was as much about preserving their own social status as it was to do with hers.

But if the potential for scandal was already managed, there wasn’t any need for a hasty elopement. She could have whatever sort of wedding she wished.

All the choices were still hers.

“Now,” Daphne said, “unless you mean to make me the worst sort of liar, the wedding had better be spectacular. And soon.”

Clio led her sister to the sitting room. “Perhaps it will be. Come with me.”

No fewer than six dressmakers and assistants stood waiting to assist her. The room was so spattered in frothy white, it looked like a volcano had erupted. A volcano of meringue.

Clio turned to Daphne and said the words she knew her sister had been longing to hear for years.

“Make me beautiful.”

“This is madness.”

Rafe had spent enough time in drawing rooms this week to last him a lifetime. And he certainly had no wish to see Clio fitted in a gown for a wedding that wasn’t meant to be theirs.

“Maybe we ought to leave,” he said.

He didn’t know what the devil was wrong with him, but if he had any decency, he would cease inflicting it on Clio.

“Are you syphilitic?” Bruiser had his ear pressed to the connecting door. “We are not going to leave. Rafe, you don’t know what I’ve been through in the past few days. Just getting the dressmakers here from London was difficult enough. But that ring? Oh, you owe me for that ring.”

Rafe didn’t know how to argue with that. In truth, he owed Bruiser all manner of debts. It occurred to him that his trainer just might be the one person in his life he’d managed to
not
drive away.

“How long have we been working together?” Rafe asked. “Five years?”

“Six, by my counting.”

“And I’m going to assume that you dream about leaving my employ just as often as I contemplate setting you loose.”

“Daily, you mean? Oh, certainly.”

“So how is it that we’ve kept this partnership together?”

Bruiser gave him an annoyed look. “By not overthinking it.”

Right.

Perhaps there was a seed of truth in his trainer’s impatient answer. Rafe should stop overthinking things. He loved Clio. He’d do anything to keep her. Anything. That was God’s truth as it lived in his heart, and what he meant to tell her the instant she came through the door.

“She’s coming. Stand up.”

He knew he was in trouble before she even entered the room. He could hear it in the rhythm of her footsteps. Brisk. Confident. Fierce.

No thunks.

Or clunks.

She felt powerful. Which meant she would be beautiful.

He rose to his feet, found his center of balance, kept his joints loose, and got ready to roll with the punch.

The doors opened.

Holy God. He didn’t stand a chance.

She was a knockout.

Bruiser pumped his fist. “Now that’s more like it.”

Rafe didn’t even see the gown. It was white, he assumed. Or eggshell, or ivory. There was probably silk and lace involved. Perhaps a few brilliants or pearls. Really, he couldn’t have described the cut or style or fabric to save his neck.

He only saw her.

The gown was like a master-crafted gold setting, and Clio was the jewel allowed to shine.

“Well?” Daphne prompted. “What do you think?”

An excellent question. What
did
he think? His brain had ceased responding.

Words. He should say some words, but he had no words. He was finding it difficult to locate air. All that came out was, “You . . . It’s . . . Buh.”

“Exquisite.”

The suavely articulated pronouncement came from somewhere behind him, but Rafe recognized the voice at once. He didn’t even need to turn. Now that the old marquess was dead, that voice could only belong to one man.

“Piers,” Clio breathed.

It was Piers. In the flesh.

Every time Rafe saw him, Piers looked more and more like their father. Tall. Strong, but lean. His dark hair had picked up a few new threads of silver. Squared shoulders like a shelf, with that refined, aristocratic face—unbroken nose and all—as its only ornament.

Ice blue eyes that saw everything and found it all wanting.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Clio said.

“It’s me. I’m back in England for good this time. And this is the best possible welcome home.” His gaze alternated between Clio and Rafe. “Seeing you both. The two people I care for most in the world.”

Piers crossed the carpet in decisive, very Granville strides, coming face-to-face with Rafe. “About Father.”

All the apologies and explanations Rafe had mulled over during the past few months . . . They all fled his brain.

And then his brother pulled him into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in Rafe’s ear. “I’m sorry you had to bury him alone. Damn it. I should have been there, too.”

Oh, Jesus.

“This is magical.” Bruiser dabbed a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t have planned it any better.”

Rafe didn’t want to hear about Bruiser and his magic. His emotions were in such turmoil, he thought he might be sick.

It only got worse.

Next, Piers walked the distance to Clio, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Just look at you. Exquisite. Perfect.”

And then . . . oh God . . . he kissed her.

Piers kissed “his” bride, right in front of everyone, and there wasn’t a damned thing Rafe could do about it. Except inwardly howl and bleed.

“I should have done that years ago,” Piers said upon lifting his head. “I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then . . . Why the eight bloody years of delay?” It really wasn’t Rafe’s place to ask, but he couldn’t help it.

“It was for your safety.” His brother released a heavy sigh. “I owe a thousand apologies to you both. I’ve lied to you for years now.”

“Lied? About what?”

“The nature of my work.”

“Were you not a diplomat?” Clio asked.

“Oh, I was working for the Foreign Office. And diplomacy was the larger part of it. But there were other duties, too. Ones I wasn’t so free to discuss.”

Rafe swore. “You’re not saying you’re some kind of spy?”

“No. We avoid saying that, generally.” He turned back to Clio. “It didn’t seem fair to marry you until I’d finished my work. But these damnable wars kept dragging on and . . . What’s this?” Piers lifted her hand and peered at it. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

“Oh, that.” Bruiser leapt to explain. “It’s being cleaned, my lord.”

Piers turned and stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”

Bruiser tugged on his lapels and straightened his spine. “Who do you think I am?”

“An imposing jackass?”

Bruiser lifted the quizzing glass. “What about now?”

“An imposing jackass with a monocle.”

Maybe this scene
was
some sort of magic. Rafe had always known there was much he should admire about Piers. But in this moment, he actually liked his brother.

Daphne intervened. “Oh, Lord Granville. Don’t be such a tease. You know it’s Mr. Montague. We’ve been working on the wedding preparations all week. Everything’s ready. Why, with Clio all dressed . . . the two of you could be married today.”

“
Daphne,
” Clio said.

Her sister replied through clenched teeth, “Don’t argue. It would be a prudent idea, after last night.”

“What happened last night?” Piers asked.

Daphne waved a hand. “There was the worst sort of scene at a ball, but Clio was blameless. It was all Lord Rafe’s fault.”

Piers smiled a little. “The worst scenes are usually Rafe’s fault.”

Oh, yes. They were.

And Rafe felt another scene coming on now.

His brother had an arm around Clio. Like it belonged there. It was enough to make Rafe taste smoke and smell blood.

Step away from her,
he willed.
She’s not yours
.

“Piers, we need to talk,” Clio said.

“Yes, I think we should. I’m beginning to suspect I never actually left the Continent, and this is all just one elaborate hallucination.” Piers cleared his throat and brought out that classic Granville ring of authority. “Will someone tell me, in simple words, just what is going on?”

“I will.” Phoebe meandered into the room, holding a book. “Clio’s not going to marry you. She’s going to live here in this castle and open a brewery.”

“Thank you,” Piers said. “Now I know I’m going mad.”

“She’s not yours,” Rafe said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rafe knew he was the one who’d be begging all the pardons. But it had to come out, and he couldn’t wait. “You heard me. She’s not yours anymore.”

His brother’s gaze narrowed to an icy beam of interrogation. “What did you do?”

“Only what she asked.”

“You bastard. Did you touch her?”

“I—”

“Rafe, don’t,” Clio said, sounding frantic. “Please.”

Her words were a stab to the heart.

Granted, it was a self-inflicted wound. He’d told her all week she should marry Piers. He’d repeated that same stupidity this morning. And now the man himself was back, setting all her insecurities to rest with a worldly air and a hero’s mantle. And kisses.

Why would she ever choose Rafe?

If Rafe could choose to
be
any man in this room, he wouldn’t choose Rafe.

Clio turned to Piers. “You must understand. Your brother’s been so loyal to you. When I had doubts about the wedding, he tried to change my mind. He made every effort to convince me, said such lovely things on your behalf. That’s not all he’s done. He’s managed Oakhaven in your absence. And wait until you see what marvelous care he’s taken of . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she glanced about the room, ducking to peer under the furnishings.

“Oh, dear. Has anyone seen the dog?”