Say Yes to the Marquess by Tessa Dare
"I said, I don't spar with amateurs as a rule. But every rule has its exceptions."
Behind him, someone in the growing throng of onlookers crowed. "It's a fight, boys!"
"No fighting is necessary," Clio said, speaking from somewhere behind him.
Rafe heard her.
His eyes never left the card cheat, but he heard her. And though he couldn't reassure her, she needn't worry. He knew very well what was at stake in this situation--for her and for him.
"This was all our fault for interrupting the card game," she said bravely. "Sirs, you have our sincere apologies. Isn't that right, Phoebe?"
"I see no reason to apologize," Phoebe said. "He was cheating. I was right."
"Neither of you owes this man a damn thing," Rafe growled, taking a handful of the scum's shirtfront and twisting it in his grip until he'd hauled the man up on his toes. "I'm going to give him what he's got coming."
The man's face paled in a most satisfying fashion.
All around them, the tavern customers' excitement reached a new pitch. Men cleared the tables and chairs to the edges of the room. Wagers were being made. And the reeking filth he held dangling in his grip . . . well, he had to be hearing how few of those bettors liked his chances.
Rafe was getting hungry. And he didn't mind who saw it. He had earned this brutish reputation, and it was his to use as he pleased.
A soft touch landed on his shoulder. Clio's voice broke as she whispered, "Rafe, please. Don't do this."
"Oh, I'm doing this. And I'm going to enjoy it. Just as soon as I set down my drink."
With that, he drove his right hand forward, crashing his tankard into the limewashed plaster of the tavern wall, just six inches from the man's blanched, ugly face. Beer sloshed the floor.
When he withdrew his hand, the tankard stayed there, embedded in the plaster. As though he'd made it its own little shelf.
"Still eager to fight me?" Rafe asked.
The man flicked a glance toward the tankard stuck in the wall, no doubt picturing it embedded in his teeth. "I . . . That . . ."
"Didn't think so." Rafe released the man, and he dropped to the floor and lay there. Just like the scum he was.
Before the onlookers could catch their breath, Rafe had both Clio and Phoebe under one protective arm.
"Sorry to disappoint," he told the crowd. "No fight today." To Clio, he murmured, "Let's be on our way. Now."
Rafe didn't have to ask her twice.
Clio was only too happy to leave the place.
The three of them walked out of the village without stopping or speaking, all the way until they reached the country path.
When they came to a stile, Rafe stopped and turned to them. He swept them both with a concerned glance. "Are you both well? Not harmed at all?"
Clio shook her head. "We're not harmed. Just rattled a bit."
"That was my fault, wasn't it?" Phoebe's delicate dark brows knitted in a frown. "I made him angry."
"No," Clio said. "He was a drunkard and a cheat, and you did nothing wrong."
"But I did. I did." She tugged at her hair. "I'm always doing or saying the wrong thing. I know I'm odd."
"Phoebe, darling. You're not odd. You're special."
"Why make the distinction, as if they aren't the same thing?"
Clio moved to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder.
Her sister brushed the touch aside. "If you're worried I'm going to weep or go into hysterics, don't. I never do either. That's what makes me odd. Or at least, it's part of it. You can't think I haven't noticed. I don't think or behave the way others do. There are things that are important to me that no one else seems to give a fig about. And then there are things everyone else seems to prize, and try as I might, I can't understand the fuss. Daphne teases me. Clio, you're too polite, but I know you're worried. I've heard you discussing it."
"We both love you," Clio said.
"And I don't understand that, either." Phoebe clambered over the stile and strode away.
Clio moved to rush after her, but Rafe held her back.
"Let her go," he said. "She knows the way home."
"But she's upset and hurting. I can't abide it."
"You don't have a choice. Because she's got it right. She's not like other girls." He silenced her objections with a touch to the arm. "I may not be brilliant with numbers like Phoebe, but I know something about being troubled at sixteen. Trust me on this. From time to time, she'll need the space to sort things through. It's all right to let her walk away. Just make certain she knows she can always come back."
Clio suspected he was right, but that didn't make it any easier.
To distract herself, she tilted her head and looked at his hand. What she saw made her wince. "You're bleeding. You must have scraped your knuckles on the plaster."
"It's nothing."
"Let me see to it anyway." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and lifted his hand into the sunlight for closer examination. "If I'm letting Phoebe walk away, I need to fuss over someone."
He relented, leaning against the stile while she dabbed at his wounds.
With his free hand, he reached into his pocket. "Here. Use this. It's good for all manner of aches and pains." He withdrew a small, disc-shaped tin, smaller than a snuffbox. "Bruiser swears by it."
"Bruiser," she repeated, taking the tin and tracing its circumference with her thumb. "So he is your trainer. I thought as much. Wherever did you find that man?"
"I don't recall. It's been years now. And I'd taken some strong blows to the head that week."
She smiled.
"I can make him drop the Montague act if you like. Believe me, it wasn't my idea."
"No, don't bother. It's amusing to watch Daphne fawn over him. And he's enjoying himself. It's nice to know at least one of my guests is appreciating the castle."
With a flick of her thumbnail, Clio opened the lid of the salve. A wave of rich, pungent scent reached her. She recognized it instantly.
Oil of wintergreen.
She stood motionless for a moment, reckoning with its effect on her.
He stretched his fingers. "If you're trying to tell my fortune, you're staring at the wrong side of my hand."
She gave herself a brisk shake, breaking the spell. With the tip of her middle finger, she gathered a small amount of the salve and dabbed it on his scraped knuckles.
No, she hadn't been trying to tell his fortune. But that moment had given her painful insight into her own.
Sometimes, she believed, it was possible to see the future. No need to cross a palm with silver; no crystal ball required. All it took was the courage to look inside your own heart and be honest about what you found there.
What she saw today was this: For the rest of her life, even if she lived to see a hundred summers, anytime she smelled wintergreen, she would think of Rafe Brandon. The warmth of his coat, and the devilish tip of his grin, and the sweet way he'd kissed her in the rain.
She soothed her fingertip over his abraded flesh. Gently, as if his hand were a damp-feathered hatchling instead of an instrument of violence. "He never made you feel welcome to come back, did he? The late marquess, I mean. When you were a troubled youth and needed time to walk away, sort things out . . . He was too stubborn to welcome you home."
"Can't blame the man." He shrugged. "I wasn't like Phoebe. I was a true hellion. Too far gone."
"Yours was the calmer head today." She stroked his hand. "Thank you for coming to our rescue."
"I know how you hate an unpleasant scene."
"Sometimes an unpleasant scene is warranted."
In truth, Rafe had dealt with the situation perfectly. He'd punished the cheater, defended Clio and Phoebe . . . And he'd given the crowd what they craved, as well. An impressive display of strength and danger. A story to tell, retell, and embellish in months and years to come. All of that with no blood spilled, no part of his pugilistic reputation compromised.
"Tomorrow I'll go back to smoo
She laughed a little. "You mean the plaster? They're not going to patch that hole. They'll probably make a frame around that tankard and display it with pride. 'Rafe Brandon Drank Here.' "
As soon as the words came out of her, an idea took hold. Her mind began turning faster than a waterwheel.
"That's it," she said, closing the tin with a snap. "That's what I need to make this brewery successful. A business associate."
"An associate?"
"Yes. Someone who has a good rapport with the farmers and tradesmen. Someone with a name known in pubs and taverns all throughout England." Excitement rose in her chest, and she looked him in the eye. "I don't suppose you know anyone like that?"
His jaw was steely. "No."
"Come along, Rafe. This could be perfect. We could . . . We could call it the Devil's Own Ale. To advertise, you could go about England, punching tankards into tavern walls. I'd give you a share of the profits."
"You want to hire me?"
She shrugged. "Why not? At some point, you have to take up a career."
"I have a career. I'm a fighter."
"But--"
"It won't happen, Clio." He cut off her objection by lifting her over the stile. Then he vaulted the wooden fence himself and resumed walking along the path.
End of conversation.
Clio walked a step behind him, sighing to herself. How could the idea of a brewery compete with the glory of a prizefighting career? How could anything?
She had to admit, the prospect of imminent fisticuffs had been rather exciting. When she'd thought Rafe was preparing to fight that cheating blackguard, chills had raced over her skin. Not merely because Rafe was a champion, but because he was acting as hers.
But even that rare, heady thrill was nothing--absolutely nothing--compared to the relief she felt when he punched the wall instead.
She'd followed the sport for years now, and she knew how these fighters too often ended. Forgotten. Impoverished. Sometimes imprisoned. Broken, in body and mind.
It would kill her to see that happen to Rafe.
Between the relative privacy and the lingering courage imparted by the beer, Clio felt brave enough to tell him so. She jogged to his side. "I think you lied to me when I came to your warehouse in Southwark."
"How's that?"
"You told me I hadn't walked in on a suicide. Now I'm not so sure. I know you weren't planning to hang yourself, but going back to fighting . . . ? Isn't it a slower route to the same end?"
He shook his head. "Not at all."
"I read the accounts of your fights, Rafe. And not just because I read the papers, and you happened to be in them. I sought them out. I read about all thirty-four rounds of your bout with Dubose. The magazines recounted it in such breathless detail. Every blow and bruise."
"The reporters make it sound more dangerous than it is. It's how they sell magazines. And it helps generate interest for the next fight."
Clio's concerns weren't soothed. "I hate the way people speak about you. Even in that pub today, the way they all leapt to clear space and place wagers. As if you were an inhuman creature meant to bleed and suffer for their amusement, no better than a fighting cock or a baited bear. Doesn't it bother you?"
"No. I don't fight for them. I fight for me."
"For God's sake, why?"
"Because I'm good at it," he said, sounding agitated now. "I am bloody great at it. And I was never good at anything. Because it's the one place where I know that my success is mine, and my failure, too. In the ring, I might be facing an Irish dock laborer or an English tanner or an American freedman. When the bell rings, none of it matters worth a damn. It's only me. My strength, my heart, my wits, my fists. Nothing I was given, nothing I took. I fight because it tells me who I am."
"If you're looking for someone to tell you who you are, I can do that."
He shrugged her off.
"No, truly."
She dashed in front of him and put a hand to his chest, holding him in place.
His heartbeat throbbed against her palm. Every beat pushed excitement through her veins.
"I can start by telling you you're stubborn and impulsive and prideful. And generous and protective and passionate. In public, you ride like the devil and fill out a pair of buckskin breeches like pure liquid sin, but in private, you behave as though you've joined a monastic order. You're kind to ugly dogs, and you're patient with awkward sisters. Your kisses are sweet. And your life is worth something." She fought back the emotion rising in her throat. "I'll tell you who you are, Rafe. Anytime you find yourself in doubt. And I won't even leave you bleeding."
He glanced at the horizon. "Not outwardly, perhaps. There are places inside me you're beating to a pulp."
"Good."
It was only fair. He was cutting her heart to ribbons, too.
"We should be going," he said. "They'll be waiting on us. You're to be fitted for wedding gowns this afternoon."
He still meant to put her through that? "I wish I'd drunk more beer."
"Are you begging off?"
"Oh, no." Clio smoothed the front of her frock. "I'm not giving you any excuse to back out of our agreement. Today, I'll step into a few frilly gowns. Tomorrow, you let me off the leash."
"For the last time," he said, "you're not the dog."
She muttered under her breath, "Woof."
Chapter Twelve
Come out already," Daphne called. "It's been ages."
Rafe was impatient, too. He, Daphne, Teddy, Phoebe, Bruiser, and Ellingworth all sat in the drawing room. Waiting.
Clio was with the dressmakers in the adjoining chamber. Dressing.
That was the idea, anyhow. Supposedly, they were going to be treated to a viewing of three or four gowns, so that Clio might choose her favorite.
A half hour had passed, and she hadn't appeared in even one. Had something gone wrong?'
He tapped one finger on the arm of his chair. Then he began to jostle his knee. Sitting like this was torture for him. Always had been. He didn't know how "gentlemen of leisure" like Cambourne could stand passing whole days and months and years this way.
He stared at those doors hard enough to bore a hole through the oak.
Come out, damn it.
Eventually, Rafe couldn't sit waiting anymore. He excused himself and went into the corridor, where he prowled the full length of the Savonnerie carpet. Back and forth, like a tethered beast.
This had to work. The gown fitting was the best chance of salvaging the engagement. The last chance, to wit.
Even an ill-mannered brute like Rafe knew that the gown was the most crucial part of this enterprise. He just hoped his trainer was right about the quality of the materials and workmanship. This would need to be a gown with silk so fine and lace so intricate that when Clio saw her reflection in the looking glass, she would want to never take it off.
And then she'd have to get married.
That, or become a batty old spinster who roamed her castle in a decaying wedding gown. Rafe didn't think the latter would suit Clio, but he wasn't going to mention the possibility, just in case.
Thump.
The sound drew him to a halt.
Strange. Perhaps the servants were moving things.
Or maybe the place was haunted. Any castle worth its parapets ought to have at least one ghost.
Then it happened again.
Thump.
Followed by a stifled cry of pain.
Both sounds were coming from behind a set of double doors. If he wasn't mistaken, that would be the chamber designated as Clio's dressing room.
He was at the door in seconds. "Miss Whitmore?" He pounded on the door. "Clio. Are you well?"
After endless moments, the door opened a fraction. He spied an inch-wide slice of Clio's face through the gap. One blue eye and a quirk of pink lips.
"Can I help you, Rafe?"
"Yes, you can bloody well help me
"No, I . . ." He could tell she was struggling for breath, composing her words.
Then it was Clio's shriek he'd heard. Her cheek was red, and her eyes--well, the one eye he could see--looked teary. Damn it.
He lowered his voice. "Tell me what's happened. Now."
"It's nothing. I promise you."
"Then open the door so I can see for myself."
"Rafe, I'm fine. Please don't mind me."
"I mind you. You've been in there for ages. I heard you cry out. Your face is red. You're scarcely able to speak. And there were thumps."
"Thumps?"
"Maybe clunks."
Her mouth quirked. "Clunks."
"Noises." His hand balled in a fist. "I heard noises. You're visibly overset. Something's going on in there. Either you open the door, or I break it down."
That single blue eye widened. "You'd truly break down the door?"
"You saw me today in the tavern. If I thought you were in danger, I'd break through the wall."
That single blue eye blinked.
She must know this about him by now. He enjoyed a bit of witty banter as much as the next man, but when his blood started pumping, he couldn't bother with words. What came out of him was action.
"Very well. Since you insist." She stepped back, opening the door. "See?"
Oh, he saw.
He saw a lot of her that he probably shouldn't be seeing.
She was dressed in a gown of delicate ivory lace. However, the lace was fitted so tightly that it was stretched to the point of transparency. Her breasts overflowed the bodice in twin fleshy scoops, and . . .
And his gaze got rather stuck in the dark, mysterious valley between them. The rest of the gown could have been more lace . . . or tweed or crimson velvet. Or on fire, for all he knew.
"I . . . That's . . ." He had no words. None that he could utter aloud.
"Is this some sort of joke?" she asked. "This is your idea of a wedding gown?"
"Not particularly. Or generally."
That gown was entirely unsuitable for walking down the aisle of a church. However, when it came to the wedding night . . .
Damnation. His thoughts could not stray there. His gaze needed tethering, too.
Eyes, Rafe.
The other pair.
She said, "And here I worried you might succeed in overwhelming me with elegance and finery."
"It's not . . . bad."
She leveled a gaze at him. "I look like I've been cast as an angel in the bawdy-house nativity play."