"Piers was born too old for such games."
"And it would seem I haven't outgrown them. Another sign he and I are poorly matched." She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and shrugged. "I've been a very good girl for a very long time. I'm ready to have fun again."
Don't. Don't say that.
"Do you know what's great fun? Weddings." Good God. The things that came out of his mouth this week. "Just give this a chance. You'll have every indulgence you could ever dream. Doves released into the air. Swans in the pond. Peacocks wandering the gardens if you want them."
"That's a great many birds."
"Never mind the birds."
"I mean, there would be feathers everywhere. Not to mention their droppings."
"No birds. Forget I said anything about birds." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "What I'm attempting to say is this. You shall have everything you want, and nothing you don't. We'll spare no expense."
It was just as Bruiser said. A wedding was like a championship bout, and Clio's head wasn't yet in the ring. She needed to step into some gowns, plan a menu or two, start envisioning herself as the admired and envied bride on Piers's arm. Triumphant. Victorious.
This would work. It had to work. He could not let her dissolve this engagement.
"It's no use, Rafe." She went to retrieve her slippers.
He tried not to watch as she lifted her skirts to slip her toes inside.
Tried, and failed.
"Even if I were so easily persuaded . . . It's not as if my Uncle Humphrey left me a seaside cottage or a string of matched pearls." She bounced up and down, wriggling her foot into the slipper.
Other parts of her wriggled, too.
Really, she was just torturing him now.
"I have a castle," she said. "My very own castle. How can a wedding--even a lavish one with dozens of birds--possibly compete with this?"
"So it's a castle. There are castles all over England. I'm certain the Granville title comes with one or two. If it's a great, fancy house you're after, you'll be mistress of Oakhaven."
"It's not just a great, fancy house I'm after. It's . . ." She looked to the corner and sighed. "You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?" His pride was piqued, the way it always was when someone questioned his intelligence. He might not have graduated Oxford with top honors the way Piers had done, but he wasn't a lummox.
"It's hard to explain in words. Come along. I'll try to show you."
He shook his head. "Downstairs. The guest list."
"Not yet." She came to his side. "You want to understand why this place is different? Why I'm different now, too? Give me a chance to show you, and I promise I'll join my sisters in the drawing room for the rest of the evening."
He stood unmoved. "The week."
"What?"
"I want a full week of bridal compliance. You'll make lists and menus. You'll choose flowers. You'll be fitted for gowns. No grousing, no evading."
"Let's say I agree to this plan. I allow you to stay for a week. I keep an open mind about marriage. You promise to keep an open mind about me. If at the end of the week, I still wish to break the engagement . . . what then? Will you sign the dissolution papers?"
He inhaled slowly. He was putting a lot of faith in the power of lace, silk, and Bruiser's competence, but he didn't seem to have a choice. The preparations couldn't sway her if she didn't take part.
"Very well," he said. "It's a bargain."
"Shake hands on it?"
He clasped her small hand in his and pumped it once.
She squeezed his fingers tight and didn't let go. "Excellent. Now come along. I've been dying to show someone around this castle. We'll see how much trouble we can find on our way downstairs."
As she led him through the opposite end of the gallery, a sense of foreboding gathered in Rafe's chest. Above all things, he had a talent for finding trouble.
And a week suddenly seemed like a dangerously long time.
Clio swelled with a modest amount of confidence as she tugged him out of the gallery and down the spiraling flights of stairs.
A quarter hour would be more than enough time to prove this place wasn't just another heap of stones littering the English countryside.
Of course, then came the trickier part--making Rafe see what Twill Castle meant to her.
"Quickly," she whispered, peeking into the corridor to make certain no one observed them. "This way."
"But--"
"Hurry."
As they ducked into a smaller, darker stairwell, Clio clutched his hand tight and tried to ignore the stupid thrill that ran through her every time her skin met his.
Ridiculous, really. Yes, he was an infamous rake. But they'd known each other since childhood, and she'd been engaged to his brother for almost a decade. There wasn't anything forbidden about taking the man's hand.
Nevertheless, her heartbeat drummed in her chest as she drew him down the stairs. At the bottom, they were greeted by cold, clammy darkness. The only illumination was the last lingering bit of twilight struggling through a ceiling grate.
"See?" She lowered her voice as they crept through the cavernous space. "This castle has dungeons."
"These aren't dungeons."
"They are so dungeons."
"They're far too big for dungeons. These were clearly cellars."
She went to a hook where a lamp was hung and gathered a flint from the nearby tinderbox.
"Stop ruining the fun." She struck the flint. Nothing. "Battles were fought in this place. It's over four hundred years old. The very air is thick with history. For centuries, people have lived and loved and died here. Just think of it."
"Here's what I think. You've been reading too many of those knights-and-ladies stories in the Gentleman's Review. People have lived and loved and died everywhere. And for every crusading knight who won a tournament for his lady in this castle, I promise you--there were a hundred men who spent a solid decade scratching themselves and having pissing contests from the ramparts."
She cringed and tried the flint again. "Men are disgusting."
"Yes," he said proudly. "We are. But we're useful, on occasion. Give that here."
He took the flint from her hands and struck it. The sparks didn't dare disobey. Holding that warm, nascent glow cupped in his powerful hands, he could have been Prometheus, as painted by a Florentine master. The reddish gold light flashed over the strong planes of his brow and jaw, then lingered on the rugged slope of his oft-broken nose.
"Well, I'm not a man," Clio said, feeling keenly aware of her womanliness. "I'm not going to spend a decade pissing from the ramparts. I'm going to do something with this castle."
"Let me guess." He lit the lamp, then whipped the straw, putting out the flame. "You want to open a school for foundlings."
"That's a lovely thought. But no. If I'm to maintain this place, it needs to generate income. No offense to the poor dears, but there isn't much money in orphans."
Clio took the lamp, went to the far wall, and counted off the stones.
One, two, three, four . . .
"Here's what I brought you down to see."
If this didn't impress him, she didn't know what could.
She pushed hard on the fifth stone. An entire section of the wall swung outward.
"Behold," she declared. "A secret passage."
He took the lamp from her and thrust it into the darkened tunnel, peering hard into the gloom. When he whistled, the whistle echoed back.
"Very well," he said. "One point to you. That's capital."
At last. Clio warmed with satisfaction. She wanted him to appreciate the history and see the potential of this place, but there was more to it than that. She wanted him to enjoy this castle, the way she enjoyed it.
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 bloodsh
ed. 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.
"Goo
d 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 decor. 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."