"I meant this kind." With a smile, Clio passed a plate of white and brown toast points.
"Oh." Daphne took a point of white and immediately leveled it at Rafe, like a buttered weapon. "But come to think of it, my lord, you should start writing a draft."
"A draft of what?"
"The toast. You are the best man."
Then she turned away, giving some direction to her husband, who was moving down the sideboard and loading two plates as he went.
Not this again. Rafe had no intention of performing any best-man duties at his brother's wedding. They'd scarcely spoken in a decade, and Rafe didn't expect they'd be mixing much in years to come, either. The only thing more uncomfortable and inappropriate than harboring lust for his brother's intended bride would be harboring lust for his brother's wife.
No, he was only here to make certain the wedding took place. Then he'd hand over the marquessate duties and get back to his life. His career. His title.
His women.
Not that there'd been many women of late. No doubt that was part of his sapping problem.
"Today, we'll meet with the vicar to start planning the ceremony," Daphne announced. "After that, the menus."
"Must we do all that today?" Clio asked. "You've only just arrived, and I never had the chance to show you about. I'd love for you to see the castle grounds."
Cambourne glanced to the window, dismayed. "It looks like rain. And these are new boots."
"We don't have time for these things," Daphne said. "There are seventeen items on Phoebe's list. Seventeen."
"Are you sure there aren't sixteen, my lady?" a new voice inquired. "Or perhaps it's eighteen." Bruiser leaned over her shoulder, examining the list with the aid of his quizzing glass.
If that quizzing glass survived the week without meeting the heel of Rafe's boot, it would be a miracle.
"Seventeen," he pronounced at length. "I ought to never have doubted you, Miss Phoebe. Where would we be without your sterling accomplishment in counting?"
"What about flowers?" Clio asked. "Are flowers one of the seventeen items?"
"But of course they are."
"Then we can compromise. We'll all take a stroll in the castle gardens, and I can decide which blooms I like for the bouquet."
Rafe supposed flowers were as good a start as anything.
As they made their way toward the summer garden, Cambourne approached him. The man dug an elbow into Rafe's side in a manner that Rafe guessed was meant to be chummy.
He didn't want to be chums.
"Say, Brandon. I was a few years behind your brother at Eton. But I don't recall crossing paths with you there."
"I wasn't there. Not for long, anyway." Rafe hadn't lasted one term with the snobbish prigs at Eton. "Sent down for fighting."
"Right-o. 'Course you were."
It was mostly the truth.
Rafe had never taken to book learning. He preferred to be out of doors, riding his horse or chasing clouds of starlings from the fields.
He'd struggled through those early years with tutors at home, but by Eton he'd fallen behind other boys his age. He'd been embarrassed to sit in lecture, not having completed his work for the day, unable to focus on what went on around him. He was an undisciplined, unruly scamp, his masters agreed. So Rafe played the role they assigned him. He started fights, and he won them. He'd rather be sent down for fighting than stupidity.
That elbow again. "Do you know," Cambourne said, "I dabbled in a bit of pugilism myself, in my day."
"You don't say."
"Champion at the club, two years running." He thrust his tongue in his cheek. "I say, how about it, Brandon? Fancy a few rounds of sparring? I wouldn't mind testing myself against you."
Rafe sized up the man. A solidly built fellow, with a florid complexion, scarlet waistcoat to match, and a smug grin. What with his comments to Clio at dinner last night, the man had all but painted a target on his jaw.
Rafe would have enjoyed punching that face. Immensely.
"I don't think so," he said.
"Oh-ho-ho." The man boxed Rafe's biceps with a clumsy jab that might as well have been a fleabite. "Not in top form anymore? Afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of the ladies?"
No. I'm afraid of killing you in front of the ladies, you idiot.
Rafe would never spar with an untutored amateur--and especially not with a man he personally disliked. The danger for his opponent would be too great. He enjoyed cultivating a dangerous, brutish reputation, but he stopped well short of maiming.
Anger might have made him a fighter, but discipline had made him a champion. The best thing boxing had done for him was teaching him when not to punch. Without the sport, Rafe probably would have landed in prison by now. If not a grave.
"This isn't the time or place for sparring," he said. "We're here so Miss Whitmore can choose her flowers."
No sooner had Rafe spoken the words than Clio lifted a clutch of blossoms.
"Well, that's done," she declared. "Now we can take a wander over the meadows. There are deer in the park."
He crossed to her. "You can't be finished already."
"It appears that I am. Mr. Montague was kind enough to cut these for me."
He stared at the floral hodgepodge in her hands. A few of the buds weren't even open yet, and others had shed half their petals. He saw roses and . . . some white flowers and some yellow, clumpy things. He didn't know the names.
"You promised to cooperate with the wedding plans," he said.
"And I am cooperating."
Before he could argue back, Daphne joined them.
She took the flowers from Clio's hand and tutted. "This won't do. Horrid. Hideous. And wrong, all wrong. Montague, do you know nothing of the language of flowers?"
There was a language of flowers? Ye gods. Rafe didn't even know what to call them in English.
"Each blossom imparts a different message. And this dreadful posy is saying all the wrong things." One by one, Daphne plucked the flowers from the bunch and cast them to the ground. "Yellow roses are for envy." Away went the roses. "Primrose? That's inconstancy." The primroses dropped to the grass. "And tansy . . ." She scowled. "A declaration of war."
"There's a flower to serve as a declaration of war?" Clio plucked one of the yellow, puffy flowers from the ground and turned to Rafe. "How very interesting. I wonder if we sent a bouquet of these to Napoleon. Or maybe it's like calling a man out with a slap of the glove?"
"If a man slapped me with a tansy," Rafe said, "I wouldn't take kindly to it."
"What if a woman did?"
"Well, then I'd pay her double."
She turned away, but not before he saw the corner of her lips curl up and her cheeks go pink. An absurd swell of triumph rose in his chest.
What was it about those blushes of hers? He never could resist provoking them. When he saw that color bloom on her cheek, it made him feel he'd done something right. Like a little banner hoisted with the words writ, Well Done, You.
"Now wait, wait." Bruiser angled his way into their group, retrieving the rest of the discarded blooms from the ground. "I am, in actuality, well versed in the language of flowers." He stood tall and tugged his waistcoat straight. "The Viennese dialect."
Good God. Rafe couldn't wait for this.
Daphne looked skeptical. "The Viennese dialect?"
"Let us not forget, my lady, Lord Granville has been living for several years on the Continent." Bruiser held a yellow rose aloft. "In Austria, these roses speak not of envy, but of devotion." He added the primrose to the bunch. "These, tenderness of spirit."
Daphne crossed her arms. "And the tansy?"
"Ah. The tansy. The tansy says--"
"I wish to sexually reproduce."
This interjection came from Phoebe, who had heretofore been silent.
She had everyone's attention now.
Bruiser didn't miss a beat. "Well, yes. In the low country, perhaps. In the high country, it's an invitation to yodel
."
"I wish to sexually reproduce," Phoebe repeated. "That's what the tansy says. That's what all blossoms say. Any plant that produces a flower is seeking to procreate."
"Oh, kitten," Daphne said. "Really."
She and Bruiser moved on, discussing the merits of hydrangea and nasturtiums.
Rafe drew Clio aside, tugging her in the opposite direction. "Forget all of this. We need to order hothouse blooms. Orchids or lilies or . . ." He churned the air with one hand. "Whatever else is finest."
"What's wrong with these?" She lifted her pathetic bouquet. "I think they're cheerful."
"There's nothing exactly wrong with them."
"Well, then. They'll do."
"No. They won't." He plucked the posy from her hand. "That's my point. These might be good enough for a vase on the windowsill, but this is your wedding day."
"Perhaps I'm satisfied with 'good enough.' " She took the flowers.
He took them back. "I'm not satisfied with 'good enough.' "
"You said it's my wedding. You said I could have whatever I wanted."
"I want you to want something better." She reached to take back the posy, but he refused to let go. He flexed his arm, drawing her close. "You should have the best. Always."
He held her firm. She didn't pull away.
And the world shrank around them, to something the size of two stubborn heartbeats and a wilted bouquet.
It must have been the arguing, because Rafe rarely felt this way outside a fight. Sharp. Intent. Powerful. Aware of everything at once. The petal pink flush of her skin against her white frock. The sleekness of her wrist contrasted with the clinging flower stems. The breeze that caught a stray curl of her hair and twirled it in a dance. The tender sweetness of violets.
Only there weren't any violets in the bouquet. Which meant he was breathing in the tender sweetness of Clio herself. The scent of the French-milled soap she used in the bath, or maybe the pomanders she tucked between her folded underthings.
He shouldn't be thinking of her underthings. Much less envisioning those crisp, white underthings on her otherwise-naked body.
Or worst of all, picturing them as a heap on the floor.
Eyes. He kept his gaze stubbornly locked with hers. But that wasn't safe, either. Her eyes were the clear, brilliant blue of mountain lakes. Water that came pure and sweet and deep, and could drown a man in seconds.
Already, he felt himself leaning forward. As if to bend his head and drink.
Gods save me.
And for the first time in his life, some deity actually answered his prayer.
His deliverance came in the form of a piercing shriek.
At the sound of her sister screaming, Clio wrenched her gaze from Rafe's. A strange, smarting pain accompanied the motion. As if she'd pulled her tongue from a block of ice too swiftly, leaving a small piece of herself behind.
She wheeled in place, looking for the crisis.
In the center of the summer garden, Daphne stood pale and utterly immobile, like a piece of garden statuary that had begun shrieking in outrage. "No. No! Stop, I say!"
Clio started toward her sister, searching for the source of danger. "Is it a wasp? A snake?"
Rafe said, "It's the dog."
"Oh." She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear."
Evidently she wasn't the only one who'd mistaken Daphne for statuary.
Ellingworth was urinating on her foot.
"No!" her sister shrieked. "Stop! Stop it this instant, you odious beast."
Having finished his task, Ellingworth shuffled off and disappeared under a hedge. An agitated Sir Teddy gathered his wife, and together they began walking back to the castle. Phoebe and Bruiser followed.
Clio fought back laughter. "I really shouldn't find this amusing, should I?"
"No, that's good," Rafe said. "If you're amused, I don't have to be sorry."
"We'd better find the dog, poor old dear. It's going to rain."
Distant thunder rumbled in agreement.
Together they searched the garden, peering into hedges and parting dense clusters of mums to search the ground.
At last they found Ellingworth, lying flat on his belly beneath a rosebush.
The bulldog seemed too fatigued to go anywhere.
"I'll have to carry him in," Rafe said.
"Wrap him in this first." She slipped the shawl from her shoulders. "Or you'll be covered in mud."
"I don't want to ruin your shawl."
"It's only an everyday shawl. Nothing special."
Without entertaining further argument, Clio draped the length of printed cotton over the sleeping bulldog. Rafe scooped him up.
The distant thunder rumbled again. Only this time, the thunder wasn't so distant, and the castle was even farther away.
"We'll never beat the rain," she said. "Come this way."
She led him toward an old stone tower standing sentinel on the castle's northeastern border.
The storm broke just before they reached the structure. Rain spattered the ground in heavy drops. They ducked inside the tower, breathless.
"What is this place?" Rafe asked. Despite the muting force of the rain, his voice rang through the gutted stone silo.
"A watchtower, once," she managed. "It's been used to store hops for the past hundred years. I thought this would be helpful for Ellingworth."
She tugged an old hopcart out from the shadows. The wooden, hand-pulled wagon was just the perfect size for the bulldog. "There. Won't that suit him? We'll pull him back to the castle once it stops raining, then store this in the carriage house. This way, the servants can take him on walks."
"Not bad, but it's lacking in pillows," he said gravely. "It needs at least a dozen."
She ignored his teasing. Mostly.
Once he'd deposited the dog in the cart, and she'd arranged her shawl as a blanket, Rafe stood and surveyed her appearance. "You're wet."
"Just a little." She hugged herself.
He shrugged out of his coat and draped its weight about her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said, looking out at the rain. "I suppose we should stay here until it stops."
Clio gathered the lapels and pulled the coat tight about her. The thing must have weighed ten pounds, at least. The wool was still warm with the heat of his body. But the best part was how it smelled--intensely wonderful and intensely Rafe. She inhaled deep, surreptitiously breathing in the scents of coffee, leather, oil of wintergreen. And that faint musk that was uniquely his. She'd never been so thoroughly enveloped by another person's scent before. It felt intimate somehow.
Almost like an embrace.
She laughed at herself.
Says the girl who's never once been embraced.
She said, "I've been conferring with the land agent ever since the property came to me. We're planning to convert this tower into an oast."
"An oast."
"You do know what an oast is, don't you?"
"Of course I know what an oast is." He crossed his arms and regarded her. "You tell me what you think an oast is, and I'll judge if you're correct."
She shook her head. Even to a relative innocent like Clio, sometimes men could be so transparent. At a moment like this, it was comforting.
"An oast is a tall, round building for drying hops and malt," she said. "To convert this tower, we'll need to build a great kiln here on the ground floor. Upstairs, there'd be a flat platform for drying. Then a vent at the top to draw the heat upward. There, now. How was that definition?"
"Acceptable."
"And that's just the beginning. Not only is the soil in this region ideal for hopfields, but we've a river with clear, crisp water that runs straight through the property. Once we complete the oast, we'll start building the brewery."
His head jerked in surprise. "Wait, wait. A brewery?"
"It's as I told you last night. I mean to do something with the place."
"You want to run a brewery." His gazed raked her. "You."
&n
bsp; "Yes. Twill Castle is a touch far from London, but just here in Kent we can sell our product to countless public houses. There's ample storage space under the castle."
"Ah. So you agree. Those are cellars."
"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "Have it your way. They're cellars. And they're perfect. The entire scheme is perfect. Even you must admit it."
"I'm not admitting anything." He shoved a damp swoop of hair from his brow. "It's a terrible idea. What could you know about beer?"
"More than you know about weddings."
Over the past eight years, she'd studied not only foreign etiquette and world events, but agricultural news and land management, too. Her mother claimed it was all in service of becoming the perfect bride. She must be prepared to converse with her husband on any topic that might interest or concern him.
Clio hadn't minded, truly. Reading all those newspapers and books helped pass the time while she was . . . waiting, on one thing and another. Chaperoning Phoebe with her tutors. Sitting through Daphne's dressmaker fittings. Keeping vigil by Mama's sickbed, after the doctors declared there was nothing more to be done. Clio read through it all.
Then came the day she learned that this castle belonged to her. And she realized that something else belonged to her, too. All that knowledge she'd accumulated . . . It was hers.
She was as prepared to manage an estate as Piers could have been, what with his incessant traveling. There was only one significant difference that set them apart.
Unfortunately, it was the one difference everyone--including Rafe--couldn't seem to see past.
"You're a woman." He pronounced this statement as though it were the beginning, end, and sum of any argument.
"And you think a woman can't run a brewery? Or is it just that you don't believe in me?"
"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what all the farmers, brewers, and tavernkeepers think."
"Until a few centuries ago, all brewing was women's work. Even today, any sizeable estate brews its own small beer. It's where we get yeast for the bread."
"There's a difference between making small beer for the servants' hall and brewing ale for distribution."
"I know there is. This is why I wanted you to sign the dissolution papers. If we're to start brewing next year, we need to start building now. That means I need my dowry unencumbered, and the sooner the better. The architect won't begin the drawings without payment."
"Listen, if you've set your heart on opening a brewery on this property, all the more reason to marry Piers. His men of business could oversee everything."