Crossing to the opposite side of the bed, she began replacing the cushions in their proper order. "The pillows," she said, "serve a decorative purpose. The symmetry is pleasing."
"Right. Everyone knows that's what a gentleman finds most pleasing in a bed. Symmetrical pillows."
She felt her cheeks going from pink to scarlet. "Lord Rafe--"
"That's another thing." He'd moved on to the washstand now. No doubt to find fault with the basin, or question why there were two--heaven forfend, two!--cakes of soap. "I don't answer to that title anymore. There will be no 'my lord'-ing. Not from you, not from the servants."
"Lord Rafe." Her voice frayed at the edges as she reached for another cushion. "I am trying to be accommodating. But this is my home, not a Southwark warehouse. And I am--for the moment, anyhow--still engaged to Lord Granville. Unless you mean to dissolve the engagement by signing those papers tonight--"
"I don't."
"Then I suggest that for once, you comport yourself in a manner that honors the family name. The very name you are urging me to take."
"That's what I'm doing." He turned his head, checking the closeness of his shave in the small mirror. "The best honor I can do the family name is to distance myself from it."
Clio paused.
Surely he didn't think that. Prizefighting might be illegal and scandalous, but it was a sport revered by every Englishman. He would no doubt cause an uproar at Almack's, but any evening he wished, Rafe might stroll into London's most exclusive gentlemen's clubs and walk among the members as a demigod.
And yet . . .
There was a hard, jaded quality to his baritone.
"Don't worry," he said. "Once you've married my brother, I'll keep my distance from you, too."
"Lord Rafe . . ."
He snapped his fingers, drifting on to the closet. "Just Rafe. Or Brandon, if you prefer. Since I turned twenty-one, I only use the titles I've earned."
The titles he'd earned?
Right now, in Clio's estimation, he was earning the title Lord Pain-upon-Arse. Goodness, the man was exhausting.
"I suppose you mean the title of champion," she said, feeling peevish as she resettled a pillow in its row. "But that's Jack Dubose's title now. Isn't it?"
He turned to face her, and for the first time since he'd entered the castle, there were no restless motions. His gaze ceased wandering and focused, dark and intent, on her.
She squared her shoulders, refusing to look cowed.
Meanwhile, the back of her neck prickled like mad. And her heart skipped around her chest.
He spoke three simple, solemn words. "Not for long."
The room vibrated with an unbearable tension.
Desperate to resolve it somehow, Clio tucked the last pillow back in its place. "There."
He looked at the pillow. Then at her. "You are so perfect for my brother."
The words did something strange to her.
Perfect, he said.
Perfect for Piers.
Rafe could have no idea how that statement affected her. All those years of language tutors and etiquette lessons and . . . and worse. Much worse. Her mother's efforts to mold her to the role of Lady Granville had made Clio sick, quite literally.
But she'd endured it all without complaint, desperate to be deemed satisfactory, let alone perfect. When she had been seventeen--or nineteen, or even twenty-three--Clio would have given anything to hear those words.
And now, when she'd made up her mind to stop chasing perfection . . . Here came Rafe and all his trunks full of dangerous, arrogant nerve.
You are so perfect for my brother.
Witty responses eluded her. All she could say was, "Don't."
"Rafe." A breathless Montague burst into the room, carrying something in his hands. He didn't seem to notice Clio where she stood at the head of the bed. "Rafe, these rooms are unbelievable. You have to see this chamber pot. I've eaten from plates that weren't this clean."
"Montague . . ."
"I'm in earnest. I'd lick this." He turned the glazed pot over in his hands. "Dare me to?"
"No."
"Because I'll do it."
"Don't."
Rafe and Clio spoke the word in unison. A mutual, primal cry of desperation.
Montague froze--tongue out, eyebrows up--finally taking note of Clio's presence. He spoke without retracting his tongue. "Ah. Mih Wih-muh."
"Mr. Montague."
Montague thrust the chamber pot behind his back. "I was . . . just remarking to Lord Rafe on the exceptional thoroughness of your housekeeping."
"Quite."
Clio didn't know what was going on with this Montague character, but she sensed that it gave her an edge with Rafe. And she needed any advantage she could get.
"I'll leave you both to settle in," she said, plumping the final pillow. "Dinner is at seven."
Dinner was . . . long.
The first course started well, Rafe thought.
Which was to say, both he and Bruiser managed to use the proper spoon for the soup and didn't overturn any tureens.
Then came that awkward moment when Rafe looked up from his empty bowl to realize everyone else at the table was only on the second or third spoonful.
Clio looked at him, amused. "Did you enjoy the soup?"
He peered at the empty bowl. "Pea soup, was it?"
"Jerusalem artichoke. With rosemary croutons, lemon oil, and a dollop of fresh cream."
"Right. That's what I meant."
Rafe cracked his knuckles under the table. He'd always hated these formal dinners, from the time he was old enough to be allowed at the dining table. Food was fuel to him, not a reason for hours of ceremony. One would think a rack of lamb had graduated Cambridge or made naval lieutenant, for all the pomp it received.
"How many courses are you serving?" he asked, when the servants removed the soup and brought out platters of fish.
"It's just a simple family dinner." She lifted her wineglass. "Only four."
Bloody hell. He'd rather fight forty rounds.
He could feel himself growing restless, and that never boded well.
Somehow he made it through the fish course, and then it was on to the joints and meats. At least the carving gave him something to do.
"So Mr. Montague." Lady Cambourne eyed Bruiser keenly over a carved leg of lamb. "I assume you're a barrister?"
"A barrister? God, no." Bruiser forced down a swallow of wine. "Er . . . What would make you think that?"
"Well, the 'esquire,' naturally. It must be for something. So if you're not a barrister . . . Either your grandfather was a peer, or your father was knighted. Which is it?"
"I . . . ahem . . ." He hooked one finger under his cravat and tugged at it, throwing Rafe a help-me-out-mate glance.
In return, Rafe gave him a you're-on-your-own-jackass smile.
"Oh, don't tell us." Daphne sawed away at her beef. "We'll guess. I suppose there are other ways of meriting the honor. There's proving oneself of special service to the Crown. But aren't you a bit young for that, Montague?"
He lifted that damned quizzing glass to his eye and peered at her. "Why, yes. Yes, I am."
"Ah." Her lips curled with satisfaction. "So I see."
"I thought you would."
For the love of God. Rafe couldn't believe that thing was actually working. Had Daphne Whitmore always been this dim? He couldn't recall. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been little more than a girl.
He cleared his throat. "Mr. Montague's origins aren't important. My brother dispatched him to Twill Castle for a reason. To assist with the preparations for the wedding."
"The wedding." Daphne looked sharply from Bruiser to Rafe. "You're here to plan the wedding? My sister and Lord Granville's wedding?"
"The very one," Bruiser said. "Lord Granville wishes for everything to be readied in advance of his return. So he can marry Miss Whitmore without delay."
"But he's due to return within a few weeks," Daphne replied. "That's not enough time
to plan a wedding. Not a wedding fit for a marquess, at any rate. You'll need invitations, flowers, decor, the wedding breakfast. A gown."
"I think you're right," Clio said. "It can't be done. Better to wait until Piers--"
Daphne held up a fork, gesturing for silence. "Improbable. But not impossible. You'll need a great deal of help with the planning. It's a good thing Teddy and I are staying on here at the castle. We should be glad to offer our assistance."
"That's kind of you," Clio said. "But unnecessary."
Damn right it was unnecessary, Rafe thought.
Clio didn't need her sister's help pulling together events on short notice. Clio had planned the old marquess's funeral earlier that year, when he was injured and in no condition to help. Now she was managing this castle all on her own.
Hell, there were sixteen pillows on his bed, arranged like a Druid monument to her powers of organization.
Besides, these wedding plans were supposed to make her enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying Piers and becoming the Marchioness of Granville. That would be a great deal less likely with Sir Coxcomb and Lady Featherbrain meddling in everything.
"Miss Whitmore may have anything she wishes," he said. "Anything at all. No expense will be spared."
"Of course," Daphne said. "Fortunately, I keep abreast of all the latest fashions, both in London and on the Continent. This wedding will be the finest England has seen in a decade. After dinner, we'll start on a list of tasks."
"I can start the list now." Phoebe pushed aside the berries and custard a servant had just placed before her, withdrawing a pencil and small notebook from her pocket.
"We'll need a location," Daphne said. "Does the castle have a chapel?"
"Yes," Clio said. "A lovely one. I'd been hoping to give you all a proper tour after dinner. The architecture of the place is--"
Daphne waved her off. "More boring stones and cobwebs. If they've been here for four hundred years, they can wait. The wedding plans cannot. I suppose there's a curate or vicar in the neighborhood. Then there's only the matter of a license . . . Someone will need to procure a special license from Canterbury."
"I'll do that." Rafe would be needing excuses to leave the castle anyhow. What was the distance, some twenty miles? A good length for a run. Then he'd hire a horse for the return journey.
"We already have the wedding party in attendance," Phoebe said, making a note, then immediately striking it through. "Daphne will stand up with Clio, and Lord Rafe will be the best man."
At those words, his thoughts reeled to a halt somewhere on the outskirts of Canterbury.
The best man?
Out of the question. Rafe would be the worst man for that duty.
Abandoning her untouched custard, Clio rose from the table. "Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, ladies? We can leave the gentlemen to their port."
A glass of port would have been welcome. As a rule, Rafe didn't take strong spirits while training. He might reconsider that rule this week.
Then he caught Clio's gaze, pleading with him over a sea of cut crystal.
On second thought, he decided against the port. There would be no reconsidering the rules. This was a week for the rules to be unbendable. No spirits stronger than wine. No indulgent foods.
No women.
"Yes, let's go to the drawing room," Daphne said. "We'll start on the guest list."
"This is all happening too fast," Clio said. "I don't see any reason to make plans until Piers returns."
"I see a reason, dear sister. I see eight years' worth of reasons."
"Don't argue it, dumpling." Cambourne motioned for the footman to bring port. "Best to have the mousetrap all baited and set, considering how many times he's escaped it already. Clap that ball and chain on him before he has a chance to run. Isn't that right, Brandon?"
The man laughed heartily at his own joke.
Rafe wasn't laughing. He could feel that familiar, reckless anger rising in his chest. "My brother is looking forward to the wedding."
"Believe me. We're all looking forward to this wedding." Cambourne leaned forward. "Word to the wise. Ball and chain. Look into it."
Slam.
Rafe's palms met the tabletop with a violent crash. China rattled. Crystal shivered.
People stared.
He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me."
Rafe needed to look into something other than Sir Teddy Cambourne's smirking face, or he was going to overturn this dining table--china, crystal, silver, and all.
Chapter Four
By the time Rafe had charged upstairs, gathered the dog, carried him downstairs for a quick turn out of doors, then carried him back up three flights of stone steps and deposited him by the hearth in his bedchamber, he'd lost the volatile edge of his anger.
Now he was just . . . lost.
He stopped a footman in the corridor. "Miss Whitmore and her guests?"
"In the drawing room, my lord."
"Very good." He took two paces, then stopped and turned on his heel. "And the drawing room would be . . . ?"
"In the east wing. To the end of the corridor, turn right, down the stairs, and through the entrance hall to the left, my lord."
"Right."
Or was it left?
Rafe stalked down the passageway before he could forget that litany of directions. He was navigating his way through the maze of passages and corridors, picking up speed as he rounded a corner--
When he collided, bodily, with someone coming the other way.
Clio.
"Oof."
She recoiled with the force of the impact, like a grasshopper bouncing off the flank of a galloping horse.
He caught her by the wrist, steadying her. "Sorry."
"I'm fine."
She might be fine, but Rafe needed a moment. In just the brief instant of their collision, he felt like he'd been branded with her body. The impression of lush, curvy warmth lingered in inconvenient places.
A few sprints up the staircase weren't enough. He needed to run tomorrow. Far, and hard. He needed to hit and lift things, too. Many times.
"I was just dashing down to the drawing room," he said.
"Then you were dashing in the wrong direction."
Rafe shrugged. "This place is a maze. And you're supposed to be downstairs with your sisters, making the guest list."
"I slipped away. You seemed . . . agitated when you left dinner. I wanted to make certain you were well."
He couldn't believe it. After all her brother-in-law's snide remarks at the dinner table, she was concerned about Rafe's feelings?
She touched his arm. "You seemed uneasy through the whole meal, actually. Is there anything you need?"
God. There were a great many things he needed, and a full half of them were squeezed in that gesture alone. He told himself not to make too much of her kindness. She'd been groomed to be the consummate hostess, always thinking of her guests' comfort.
"Get married," he said. "Then I'll feel fine."
They turned and began walking down the corridor together.
She sighed. "This wedding-planning nonsense. Can't you see that it's just wasted time? Not to mention, trifling with my sisters' feelings."
"Strange, then, how you don't simply tell your family you plan to call the wedding off."
"Before the papers are signed? I don't dare. Then I'd have all four of you bent on changing my mind. No, thank you." She shook her head. "I don't know how I'll forgive you for showing up like this."
"You've forgiven me worse."
"If you're speaking of the way you reserved the third dance at my debut ball, then failed to attend?" Her clipped footsteps accelerated. "I'm still vexed over that."
"That was doing you a favor." He matched her pace as they turned to traverse a long, narrow gallery. "I was thinking of the birthday party where I dipped your gloves in the punch."
"Ah, yes. And then there was the time when I was eight and you were el
even, and you scorched my frock with an ember." She slanted him a look. "But that was nothing compared to when you humiliated me at indoor tennis that rainy week at Oakhaven. Winning four times in a row? The height of ungentlemanly behavior."
"Should I have let you win just because you were a girl? I wanted the silver cup."
"It was an old copper blancmange mold," she said. "Anyhow, I had my revenge when I bested you at footracing."
He frowned. "You never bested me at footracing."
"Yes, I did."
"When?"
"Well, let's see." She halted in the center of the gallery, pondering. "That would have been right about . . . Now."
She kicked off her slippers. Hiking her skirts, she took off in a dash, sprinting down the length of the gallery. When she neared the end, she stopped running. The momentum carried her forward, and she coasted on stocking feet, skating over the polished hardwood until the doors at the other end caught her.
"There." She turned to regard him, breathless and smiling. "You lose."
Rafe stared at her, struck immobile.
If this was losing, he never wanted to win.
Good Lord, look at her. Her hair coming loose from its pins, her throat flushed the shade of china roses . . . and that labored breathing doing magic--a dark, wicked kind of magic--on her abundant bosom.
Most alluring of all, that glint of laughter in her eyes.
The girl needs finishing.
That had been the common wisdom, back when the engagement was first announced. While Piers sailed for India to launch his diplomatic career, Clio was meant to remain in London for "finishing." Rafe didn't know what the devil "finishing" meant, but he knew he didn't like it. Within a few years, she'd been finished indeed. Everything remotely unique or spirited about her had been scrubbed off, pinned back, or drilled straight out of her demeanor.
So he'd thought.
But apparently, the old Clio was still in there somewhere--the Clio he'd rather liked, before the dragons had taken her in their clutches and stifled her with ten coats of lacquer.
The Clio he had no right to be admiring now.
Damn. He had to bring himself under control. He wasn't here to ogle her. He was here to make certain that in a few weeks' time she walked down the aisle and married another man.
Not just "another man." His own brother.
"We did have fun in those days," she said. "Before the engagement was settled and everything grew . . . complicated. Well, at least the two of us had fun. Phoebe and Daphne were just babies then, and even in my earliest memories, Piers had grown too old for such games."