She shook her head, refusing to look him in the eye. "I can't listen to this anymore. You're unbelievably selfish. You don't admire me. You would marry me to a man I don't love, and who doesn't love me, just to satisfy your own convenience."
"My convenience?"
He stepped back and took a glance down the corridor in either direction before steering her into his bedchamber and closing the door behind them. Then he removed the candlestick from her hand, placed it on a narrow side table, and braced his hands on her shoulders, holding her still.
His voice lowered to a raw whisper. "You think this is convenient for me? Planning your wedding to another man, then preparing to walk away forever? Do you think I'm not going to be tortured, thinking of you in all the years and decades to come? Imagining you bearing his children, hosting his parties, sharing those countless little moments happy couples never think to catalog, but the rest of us notice and envy like mad?"
Good heavens. What was he saying?
"It's not going to be convenient for me," he said. "It's going to be hell."
"But if you feel that way, then why . . . ?"
"I'm the Devil's Own, remember? I've earned my place in hell. You deserve better." His hands soothed up and down her arms. "You should have the best. Not only the best flowers, the best cake, the best gown, the best wedding . . . but the best possible life, with the best possible man. You deserve all those things. And just for the way I'm touching you now, I deserve to face a pistol at dawn."
She shook her head. Who was this perfect, virtuous woman he was describing? Not Clio, surely. Every time he'd kissed her, she'd kissed him back. And she'd spent hours dreaming of just this moment. Being alone with him, at night. In his bedchamber. With his big, capable hands all over her body.
Perhaps he didn't understand that.
Well, there was no better time to let him know.
She stepped toward him, placing her hands flat against the broad expanse of his chest.
He sucked in his breath. "What are you doing?"
"Touching you." She stroked her palms over the softened linen of his shirt and the hard, sculpted wonder of his torso beneath.
"Clio . . ." His voice was strangled. "I can't do this."
"You're not. You're not doing anything. This time, I'm doing it all."
"For the love of God, why?"
"Because this is something I've wanted for the longest time."
She stretched her arms around him, placing her hands flat on his back, and leaned forward until her cheek settled against his galloping heartbeat. And then she squeezed him tight.
"Relax, Rafe. It's only a hug." She nuzzled into his shirtfront, settling in. "When's the last time you had a proper one?"
"I . . ." He exhaled from somewhere deep in his chest. "I can't even recall."
Neither could Clio. She'd been born into a loving family, but it was the wrong family for hugs. Daphne was a perfunctory hugger--loose embrace, a few brisk pats on the back, and done. Phoebe didn't like to be hugged at all.
But there were few things Clio loved more in life than a tight, affectionate embrace. She was good at them, too. She smoothed her palms up and down his back, coaxing the tension from his muscles.
"You could hug me back," she said.
At last, he surrendered to it, wreathing his strong arms about her waist and resting his chin on her head. His thumb traced comforting circles on her back, and he swayed her gently back and forth.
Oh, sweet mercy. He was an excellent hugger. A true champion.
She didn't want to ever let go.
"I'm sorry for earlier," she whispered. "You worked hard to bring all those lovely things from London, and I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin it."
"Then all that excitement with the dog. I know you were concerned. It's been a long, difficult day."
It had been a long, difficult year for him. He'd lost his father and his championship, both within the space of a week.
He could pretend all he liked that he wasn't grieving. Clio knew better. She remembered the way he'd looked when she called at Granville House shortly after the marquess's death. His face had worn the marks of a brutal beating, but his eyes showed that his true pain was deep inside. She wished she'd had the courage to hug him then.
Tonight, she was making up for the oversight.
"Why would you think you don't deserve to be happy, Rafe?"
He paused before answering. "It wouldn't be in you to understand. I'm bad at being good, and only good at being bad. You don't know who I am, what I've done. You don't know the half."
"Perhaps not. But I know what you deserve for your actions today." Stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. "That's for the music."
Ducking her head, she kissed the underside of his jaw, where his pulse beat hard and fast. A day's growth of whiskers scraped against her skin. "That's for the flowers."
"Stop."
"This is for the cake."
She pressed her lips to the notch at the base of his throat. Then she held the kiss for long moments, breathing in the scent and heat of him.
A tortured growl rose in his chest. He probably meant it as a warning, but Clio was emboldened by the sound.
She loved knowing she had this effect on him. This was Rafe Brandon, one of the fiercest, strongest, most fearsome men in England. And she, Miss Clio Whitmore, had him weak in the knees.
When she lifted her head, she found him staring down at her. His eyes were hazy with desire. "You need to leave this room. At once."
Clio didn't try to argue with him.
But neither did she move to leave.
She sensed a battle going on within him--desire and the simple need for closeness, warring with his ambition and loyalty. It was a true struggle, and as a spectator, she was breathless. Riveted. Tense with anticipation, waiting to see which side would win.
His hands lay flat on the small of her back.
And then . . . slowly . . . she felt his fingers gathering the fabric of her frock, drawing it into tight fists. He flexed his arms and pulled her close, sweeping her heels off the floor. Her breasts crushed against the solid wall of his chest, and a ridge of pure male heat pulsed against her belly.
His breathing was rough. His lips, so close to hers.
Yes.
Lord, yes. This was how it felt to want, and be wanted.
And now that she'd known the sensation, he couldn't expect her to settle for anything less. She didn't want a marriage that was tame and polite. She wanted wild. She wanted wrong.
She wanted him.
Clio reached for fistfuls of his shirt, forbidding him to let her go. "Rafe."
The bedchamber door swung inward.
"Hullo."
Rafe, to his credit, only clutched her tighter. "Who's there? Declare yourself."
Oh, no.
Sir Teddy Cambourne stood in the doorway.
And he did not look pleased.
Chapter Ten
Hallelujah.
That was Rafe's first, instinctive reaction when the door opened to reveal the stern countenance of Sir Teddy Cambourne.
Excellent. Perfect. Thank God.
The struggle was over. The jig was up. He'd been caught with his fists twisted in the back of Clio's frock, pulling his brother's intended bride tight against the rudeness of his hardening cock . . . and that was that.
Now he'd be called out for the villain he was. He could give up the entire wedding-planning charade. He'd allow Sir Teddy to take a shot at him in the first mists of dawn . . . and whether he was killed, maimed, or merely disgraced, he'd slink away. Disappear from Clio and Piers's future happiness, forever.
Good.
But Cambourne didn't seem to have read the script. He didn't shout or rage, didn't denounce him as a villain or a blackguard. He didn't demand Rafe unhand his sister-in-law and name his second for a duel.
He merely stood there, wearing only his nightshirt and a blank expression, clutching a pair
of black Hessians in his hands.
He held the boots out to Rafe. "Take these."
Rafe just stared at the man. Was this some part of the dueling code he'd never learned? He thought the slap of a glove was the usual way of calling a man out, but perhaps there was a new fashion: handing him boots.
Then, from down the hall, he heard Daphne calling, "Teddy? Teddy where have you got to now?"
The man didn't even turn at the sound of his wife's voice. He just pressed the boots toward Rafe again. "They need to be polished by tomorrow morning. Mummy's taking me to see a menagerie."
"Just take them," Clio whispered. "He's walking in his sleep. He does this sometimes."
Rafe took the boots.
Clio put her hands on Teddy's shoulders and turned him back toward the doorway. "There now. That's done. You can go back to bed."
"I hope they have tigers. Mummy says there will be tigers."
"Well, now. Won't that be fine."
He shuffled numbly toward the doorway. "Tigers are stripey. They say grrrrrowr."
Rafe choked back a laugh.
Down the corridor, Daphne's cries were growing increasingly frantic. "Teddy! Teddy, where are you?"
"He's here!" Clio called. "He's fine." To Rafe, she whispered, "Don't tell my sister about the menagerie. She'll be embarrassed enough as it is."
They met with Daphne in the corridor. "Oh, thank heaven." She flung her arms around her husband's neck and kissed his cheek.
Cambourne didn't seem to notice.
Phoebe had come out of her room, too, wrapped in a dressing gown and holding a book in one hand. "It's not surprising. We should have expected it. He's in a new place."
Clio nodded. "But we must find some way to keep him in his room. As big and ranging as this castle is, it could be dangerous for him to go wandering."
"I did turn the key in the door, but I left it in the lock," Daphne said. "I've learned my lesson. After tonight, the key sleeps under my pillow. Or perhaps around my neck."
Rafe resisted the urge to suggest clapping good Sir Teddy in a ball and chain.
"I'll station a footman in the corridor, just in case," Clio said.
"Thank you." Daphne turned to Rafe. "I'm so sorry. He hasn't done this in ages."
"There's no need to apologize," Rafe said.
On the contrary, he should be thanking the man. Stripey tigers notwithstanding, Cambourne had single-handedly yanked Clio from the brink of ruination.
Rafe pushed a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? The reasons he should leave Clio alone were stacked so high, he'd need Phoebe to count them. Nevertheless, he couldn't keep his hands--or lips--off her.
A better man would have managed it.
But a better man wouldn't have been so desperate for her touch.
"Can I help at all?" Rafe asked.
"No, no. We'll be fine now." Daphne herded her husband back toward their bedchamber. "Come along, dear. Back to bed."
Phoebe yawned and returned to her room, as well.
"What shall I do with these?" Rafe still clutched the boots in his hands.
"I'll see that they're given to his valet." Clio took them. "And you needn't worry that he saw us. He never remembers anything of these episodes in the morning."
"Has he seen doctors?"
She nodded. "There's nothing to be done, short of dosing him with opiates every night. In that case, the cure would be worse than the condition. He truly has improved over the past year. It was more severe when they first wed."
"It must be difficult for your sister."
"Yes." Her gaze slanted to the side. "But oddly enough, I envy her that difficulty."
"Why?"
"Because it shows that theirs is a true marriage. This is what you've been failing to see all this time, Rafe. A wedding is more than staging the perfect event, or having everything that's best. It's two people vowing to stand by each other through everything that's worst. It's compromise and unconditional love."
"That isn't how marriage works in most Mayfair town houses. And I doubt Piers is expecting it, either. We all know that at this level of society, love is a luxury. Marriage is a contract. You agreed to your part."
"That's unfair."
He knew it was unfair. She'd been far too young and raised to believe she had no other choice. Then Piers had left her dangling for years. And Rafe was hardly the one to talk about social obligation when he'd walked away from everything.
"Speaking of contracts . . . You struck a bargain with me, Rafe. And in two days, it's done. You gave me your word, and I expect you'll honor it."
She turned from him and walked away, and there was nothing he could think to say.
A door creaked open, and Bruiser's head popped into the hall, quizzing glass and all. "I say. Is there some commotion, what-what?"
"You can drop the act, Montague. Cambourne was walking in his sleep. It's over now."
Bruiser snapped his fingers. "Damn. I'd been hoping to show off in these."
He stepped into the hallway, wearing a banyan of patterned silk and a nightcap with a peak that fell all the way to his knees. A gold tassel dangled from the tip.
"Got them at the same place I found my quizzing glass." Bruiser tugged the fringed sash tight. "I'd been hoping for something to go bump in the night, so I could rush into the corridor and look high-class."
"Then why didn't you?
"Took me too long to put the dashed things on. I can't sleep unless I'm naked as a newborn."
Rafe scratched his head, as though he could scrub the image from his brain. "I didn't need to know that."
"That's right, get angry. Stay angry. I can see it coming back." Bruiser clapped him on the shoulder. "That hunger, that envy, that drive to prove yourself . . . It's in your eyes. We'll be champions again in no time. Just be certain to save it for the ring."
"I'd be able to focus on my job if you were doing better with yours." Rafe flicked the stupid tassel on the stupid nightcap. "What-what."
"Oh, yes. About that. I didn't have a chance to tell you earlier. You were with the doctors and the dog. But tomorrow's the day we win her over."
"I doubt that."
If today's efforts didn't impress her, he was running out of ideas.
Clio wanted compromise and love, and someone who'd vow to stand by her always. Rafe knew she deserved all that, and more. When he'd held her in his arms, he'd wanted to promise her anything.
But he could not sign those papers. He simply couldn't.
"Two words, Rafe. Italian silk. Belgian lace. French modistes. Seed pearls, brilliants, flounces . . ."
"I'm no mathematician, but I'm fairly certain that was more than two words."
"The gowns." Bruiser gave him a punch on the arm. "There's your two words. The gowns. They've arrived. And they're magnificent."
"I don't know that gowns will be enough. Miss Whitmore is a gentlewoman of means. She's donned her share of pretty frocks."
"Not like these. I'm telling you, she won't be able to resist. Cor, I'm tempted to wear them myself."
Rafe opened the door to his room. "In case it needs saying: Don't."
"I won't. Again." He held up his hands. "Joking, joking."
The next day, Clio woke early. It might be more accurate to say she scarcely slept.
She knew Rafe would be awake early, too. He always was.
She didn't know how to face him so she took the coward's way out. She washed and dressed, took breakfast in her room, then scrawled a few lines to a friend in Herefordshire and sealed the envelope, just to have an excuse to walk into the village.
At the last moment, Phoebe joined her. "I'll go along. I need to buy string."
"Of course."
Clio knew her sister had an entire trunkful of string upstairs, but she grew anxious if she went more than a few days without purchasing more. Somewhere in Yorkshire, there was a string factory that thrived on Phoebe's custom alone.
They hadn't reached the end of t
he castle drive before Phoebe asked, "So what happened last night?"
"You know already. Teddy went walking in his sleep and caused a commotion. It's happened before, and it's sure to happen again."
"I do know all that. I was wondering what happened before it."
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you coming out of Lord Rafe's room."
Drat.
Clio had feared that might be the case, and here was confirmation. She tried her best to remain calm. "Yes, so I did. We'd stayed up late with the dog to be certain he didn't suffer any ill effects from the cake. Afterward, we were talking."
"I see."
"We had important matters to discuss," she went on. "But the others might form the wrong impression if they knew, so please keep that between us."
And please don't ask for further explanations.
Her sister shrugged. "Very well. I won't tell anyone. Although I don't understand why any of the others should care about the two of you talking."
No, Phoebe wouldn't understand.
For all her intelligence, Phoebe was blind to human subtleties. She took every person at his or her word, as though she couldn't conceive of a reason why anyone would bother to prevaricate.
Clio was terrified of what would happen when it came time to introduce her youngest sister to society. She could delay another few years . . . but they were granddaughters of an earl. Eventually, Phoebe must be presented. And unless Clio was vigilant in protecting her, the dragons of the ton would devour the poor thing alive.
But for this morning, she needn't think of it yet.
The day was fine. The rain had ceased, for once. Yes, the ground was muddy underfoot, but the sun was steadily climbing in the sky. Clio threw back the hood of her cloak to bask in its warmth.
She loved this bit of Kentish countryside. It suited her. There weren't any dramatic peaks or valleys. Just well-tended fields bordered by stone fences and hedgerows, with the occasional pocket of woods. From the turrets of Twill Castle, it looked like a quilt pieced in a dozen shades of green. Cozy. Comfortable.
Safe.
She led her sister toward a narrow, two-plank footbridge crossing a rain-swollen rill. They crossed it one at a time, holding their arms stretched to either side for balance.
"In time, I should replace this with a proper bridge," Clio said. "But I rather like the charm of this one."
She took the last bit of distance in a leap, then held out a hand to help Phoebe across.