Say Yes to the Marquess by Tessa Dare
Over the years, he'd learned to rein in his impulses, pull his punches. But when she'd let that lacy frock slide down her body, revealing the thinnest linen shift the Devil could weave . . . Inviting--nay, pleading for his touch . . .
He shouldn't have given in to the temptation.
Miss Lydia Fairchild had taught him that lesson in his youth. The chestnut-haired daughter of a gentleman farmer, she'd pulled Rafe into the orchard one spring afternoon and drawn his hand beneath her skirts. His first touch of pure woman. He'd been overwhelmed by her warmth, her willingness. The way her hair smelled of apple blossoms.
Most of all, how she'd wanted his touch, at a time when he'd felt unwanted everywhere.
After an hour or so of enthusiastic groping, Rafe had managed a weak, guilt-inspired offer to speak with her father. In response, she'd laid her fingers to his cheek and laughed. Her parents had arranged a match with a country squire some twenty years her senior. She only wanted a few thrills with the local hellion first.
She wasn't the last, either. Over the years, women had come to him for all sorts of reasons--pleasure, curiosity, rebellion, escape--but love and marriage weren't among them.
Just as well, he'd told himself. He had too much devilry in him. If he wanted to keep his mind sharp, Rafe needed to be in constant motion. Staying in one place made him restless, prone to rash mistakes. He was incapable of settling down.
But that didn't keep him from envying men who did. And wanting something more than a quick, hard . . .
Well, just wanting something more.
When he reached the corner, he paused and jogged in place, waiting for Bruiser to catch up.
"You need to order more gowns," Rafe said. "Better ones. Ones that fit."
His trainer leaned over, clutching his side and making a pained face. "I already did. But it will take a few days."
Damn it, he didn't have a few days.
Rafe boxed the waning afternoon, throwing jab after jab at the sinking sun. As if he could punch the orange disc hard enough to drive it into the sky, and it would stick there--just like the tankard embedded in that plaster wall. Then this day would go on forever, and he wouldn't have to face the promises he'd made.
"There has to be something else," he said. "Something we haven't tried."
"We've been through it all." Bruiser threw out an arm and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. "Flowers, cakes, ceremony, gowns. There's only one thing I can think of that she's missing."
"What's that?"
"Love."
Rafe cursed.
"You heard her the other night," Bruiser said. "She wants love. And devotion and compromise. Funny, isn't it, how women seem to want those things, when they're saying words like 'Till death do us part.' Now, if Clio--"
"Miss Whitmore." Rafe threw a vicious right hook.
"If Miss Whitmore believed that Lord Granville loves her, this whole endeavor might be different."
Rafe let his arms drop. "My brother is just like our father. Granvilles are swayed by emotions the same way Alps are rocked by a breeze. How am I supposed to convince her that Piers is in love?"
"I don't know, Rafe. But there's a time-honored method I'm going to submit for your consideration. For thousands of years now, men have used it to great effect. It's called lying."
"I'm bollocks at lying."
"Fortunately, I'm excellent at training." Without warning, Bruiser leapt on Rafe's back. "Yah."
"What the hell are you doing?" Rafe spun in a circle, swatting at his trainer as if he were some kind of gnat. Only more irritating.
"Easy, stallion." Bruiser locked his ankles onto Rafe's hips in piggyback fashion. "Just run like this, will you? I'm spent, and you need more exertion."
Rafe huffed a sigh and started running again. Bruiser was right; he'd tire much faster this way. And if he had any hope of making it through one more night in Twill Castle, he needed to run himself into a stupor.
"Now listen sharp," his trainer said, clinging tight to Rafe's neck as they pounded down the length of the northern wall. "The key to a good lie is embroidery."
"I missed that day at finishing school."
Bruiser dug a heel into his ribs. "Not the needle-and-thread kind. The verbal sort. Embellishments. Particulars. They're what make a lie believable. As they say, the devil is in the details."
Rafe snorted.
"If you want to convince her that Piers is in love, you're going to have tell a good story. One with a time and a place, and plenty of specifics. Now, tell me all about the time you bedded that Parisian opera dancer."
"I never bedded any Parisian opera dancer."
"Exactly my point, you dolt. Make it up."
Rafe tried. He honestly tried. In his imagination, he conjured the fantasy of a dark, mysterious woman, beckoning him toward a bed with beaded scarlet hangings. But his mind kept working a strange alchemy, turning the woman's ebony hair to gold. Her dark, smoky eyes lightened to a familiar, lovely blue. And as for the bed . . . well, the only bed he could picture was a four-post affair with emerald velvet, and row after perfect row of pillows.
Even in his imagination, he just didn't have it in him to bed another woman. Not today.
Probably not for a long, long while.
"This is stupid," he said. "I'm telling you, I can't lie."
"You can. You just need practice. And you're about to get an excellent chance," Bruiser muttered. "Right about . . ."
"Oh, gracious!" someone close--and female--shrieked.
"Now," Bruiser finished.
Rafe pulled up short, chest heaving. Clio's lady's maid--Anna, was it?--stood before them in the center of the path. No doubt wondering why the hell a sweaty, breathless man was running around the castle wall while carrying another grown man on his back.
Her hands fluttered. "I'm so sorry to have interrupted your . . . this."
"There's a reasonable explanation, never fear," Bruiser said. "Lord Rafe had to carry me. I have a condition."
You most certainly do, Rafe thought.
"A condition?" Her eyebrows crinkled together, and Rafe could all but see little cogs turning behind them. "Is it . . ." She lowered her voice. "Is it serious?"
"Sadly, yes. Possibly fatal."
She covered her gasp with both hands. Because, apparently, one hand wouldn't have been dramatic enough. "No. But surely something can be done. What is it?"
"I don't know. I was unconscious when the doctor saw me. Lord Rafe can explain it better." Bruiser nudged him in the ribs. "Go on, then. Tell her the whole story of my malady. In detail. With all the particulars. What did that German doctor call it?"
Rafe gave her a single, unembroidered word. "Syphilis."
The lady's maid turned a pale shade of green. She began backing away in small steps. "I just came to say Miss Whitmore is looking for you, my lord."
With that, she dropped a frantic curtsy and fled.
The moment she was out of sight, Bruiser tweaked his ear. "You bloody jackass."
"What are you complaining about? I lied. She believed me."
"I'll get you for this." He began kicking at Rafe's ribs.
Rafe turned his back to the wall and crushed the man against it.
"My pocket," Bruiser squeaked. "Mind the quizzing glass."
"Fuck the quizzing glass." Rafe let him fall to the ground in a heap. "And to hell with embroidery. I don't need to lie to Clio. She has enough honest reasons to marry Piers. He's a bloody marquess with pots of money, and he's a decent, honorable man. She can't possibly do better."
And Rafe was determined that she would have the best.
"What about you?" Bruiser asked.
"What about me?"
Bruiser hauled himself off the ground, clapped the dust from his trousers, and put his hands on Rafe's shoulders. "Your future is on the line here. I can go out and find another fighter, but you are all you've got. And you've fought enough bouts that you know by now, if you're to have any chance at besting Dubose, you
Rafe closed his eyes and saw himself on the ground after fighting Dubose. Eyes stinging, head thick. His vision blurred by sweat and blood. The crowd around him chanting and calling as the umpire counted away the last moments of his reign as champion.
Prizefighting had been his life, his salvation. He'd worked too hard, for too long to let that be the way he exited the sport.
"I want to win," he said. "I need to win."
"Then this entire situation with Clio is a distraction. What are we even doing here, Rafe? If you're serious about settling matters, I only see two alternatives. Lie, and tell her Piers is in love with her. Or be honest, and confess that you are."
"What?" Rafe recoiled, as if he'd been dealt a body blow out of nowhere.
In love with Clio?
No. He couldn't be.
He liked Clio. He admired her. And there was no denying that he desired her, to a dangerous degree. His fascination with her had outlasted his interest in just about anything or anyone, save prizefighting.
But nothing could ever come from it. Rafe was just a bit of excitement to her, and his touch could only mean ruin for Clio. He'd made his reputation, and now he had to live with it. Most dangerous of all, she had a way of destroying his hard-earned control.
If he cared for her at all, he would stay far away.
"I don't know where you got such an idea," he told Bruiser. "That's absurd. She's . . . And we. . . ." He gestured uselessly. "I'm not in love with her."
Bruiser rolled his eyes. "You're right. You are bollocks at lying. Let's just go inside."
Chapter Fifteen
In the library a half hour later, Rafe stared longingly at the crystal brandy decanter. He could have used a stiff drink right now. But whatever it was Clio wanted to discuss, he needed to keep his head clear.
"I've been looking all over. There you are."
And there Clio was, standing in the doorway. Muddling his thoughts all over again.
Damnation. Rafe had been counting on having some warning. A bit more time to compose himself before he saw her. As it was, he felt he'd been thrown unawares into a pool of shimmering silk and luminous beauty.
It was swim or drown, and he was breathless. Flailing.
"I . . ."
She'd been so soft and warm in his hands.
Sweet heaven, the taste of her.
"Ahem." Bruiser cleared his throat. Pointedly. He was already standing.
After a moment's lapse, Rafe shot to his feet, too. Christ, was he so far removed from his upbringing that he'd forgotten to stand when a lady entered the room?
Even once he'd risen from the chair, he didn't know what to do with his hands. They kept wanting to reach in her direction.
He crossed his arms and tucked them close. He had to get hold of himself.
He said, "You were looking for me."
"Yes." She gestured with an envelope. "For you both, actually. We've been invited to a ball tomorrow. The Penningtons have an estate near Tunbridge. It's only a few hours' drive. Daphne's keen on attending, and even Phoebe expressed an interest. Will you join us?"
"Jolly good," Bruiser said, in that affected toffish accent. "But of course we shall."
"No." Rafe glanced at him. "We shan't."
"Why not?" Clio asked.
"Nothing good could come of my attending. I don't belong at those things anymore. I never did."
"Why would you say that?" she asked. "Of course you belong."
"Oh, indeed. Everyone wants a brawling prizefighter at their high-class party."
"Maybe not, but they all want lords. No matter what else you've done in your life, you will always be the son of a marquess. Birth and lineage are everything to the ton."
Yes, birth and lineage were everything to the ton. And that was precisely the reason Rafe despised them. He would rather be judged on his accomplishments.
"If you come," she said, "I might even forgive you for missing my debut all those years ago."
And then she gave him a smile.
A warm, flirtatious smile, curved like an archer's bow. Its arrow struck home, hitting him square in the heart.
He tried his best to appear unskewered. "You're generous to invite us. But we must decline."
Bruiser tugged on his waistcoat. "Come along, old chap. Upon my word, I don't see why we--"
Rafe threw him a glare. "We. Must. Decline."
"Very well." His trainer lifted his hands. "We must decline."
Clio lowered her gaze and fidgeted with the invitation. "I see. Then if you'll pardon me, I'll go write the response."
As she left the room, her lips thinned to a tight, unbending line.
With a curse, Rafe charged into the corridor, turning just in time to glimpse Clio ducking into the library.
He followed her inside. "We should talk. About earlier. About everything."
"Must it be this moment? I need to write this reply, if you don't mind. The messenger has been waiting for an hour." She sat down at the desk.
"You must understand. I'm not welcome at these things."
"Of course I understand." She sighed, then let the pen clatter to the blotter. "Actually, I don't understand at all. For eight years, I've reached out to you with one invitation after another. I don't know how you can say no one wants you at these things. I want you at these things. I always have."
"What were you hoping, Clio? That I'd come to the ball, dressed in a black tailcoat and tall, gleaming boots? Stand at the top of the stairs, be introduced to the room as Lord Rafe Brandon of Somerset? Search you out in the crowded room and make my way to you?" He chuckled. "Ask you for a dance?"
She didn't laugh. Or say anything.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stared at the blotter. After a prolonged pause, she dipped the quill and began to write.
Well, damn.
So that's exactly what she'd been hoping would happen. And now he'd mocked her for daring to think it.
He hated to hurt her, but maybe it was for the best. That little scene she'd imagined was never going to occur. It couldn't.
And she needed to understand that, in no uncertain terms.
"Clio, I'm sorry if you--"
"No, don't. Don't apologize. Why should anything between us change, just because you confessed to desiring me for years, then fondled my breast? Never mind that it was one of the most passionate, thrilling hours of my life. I suppose it's just another Thursday to you."
"You know that's not true."
Her head lifted, and her blue eyes burned into his. "You're right. I do know it's not true. And that makes this hurt all the more."
Curse it. Rafe knew he was making a hash of this. "I just don't belong in that world anymore. But you do, Clio. You should go and enjoy yourself."
"I'll be surrounded by gossip." Her pen scratched across the page. She lowered her voice to a mocking whisper. "There she is, Miss Wait-More. Wonder if she'll manage to bring him up to scratch this time. Care to place a wager on it?"
"It's not going to be like that."
"You're right." She paused in writing. Her demeanor softened. "You're absolutely right. It's not going to be like that. Because by this time tomorrow, I won't be engaged any longer."
Damn. Rafe didn't like the sound of this.
She sealed the envelope with a bit of wax. "I won't ask you to attend the ball. But you must sign those dissolution papers before I leave."
"The week's not over yet," he pointed out. "There's still tonight."
"I can't imagine what you could possibly do in one night that would change my mind." She gave him a wry smile. "If you'll excuse me, the messenger is waiting."
She left the room, sealed reply in hand.
And Rafe started thinking of embroidery.
Dinner was miserable. At least, for half of the people at the table.
Clio was out of sorts and quiet. Rafe was out of sorts and quiet. Phoebe was out of sorts and q
Daphne prattled on about tomorrow night's ball at the Penningtons'. The Esquire, as Clio had taken to calling him in her thoughts, filled any gaps by recounting his "Continental" escapades. And Teddy monopolized the fish course with a lengthy description of his newest pair of bespoke Hessians.
When the meal was over, they all adjourned to the drawing room.
"I'm finalizing the menu for the wedding breakfast," Daphne said. "It's almost finished. How many sauces should we have?"
"Can we speak of something else?" Clio asked, her voice breaking. "Please? I feel like such a neglectful hostess, making you work the whole week. And look at poor Teddy. He's bored out of his mind by all this talk of menus. Why don't we have a game?"
"What kind of game?"
"Any kind of game." She'd agree to chase a greased pig through the corridors if it meant changing the topic from weddings. "We'll play cards or backgammon or something."
"Not cards," Daphne said. "Not with Phoebe. She's impossible to win against."
"That doesn't mean we can't enjoy playing with her," Clio said, anxious for her sister's feelings.
Phoebe turned a page of her book. "I don't wish to play cards."
Mr. Montague spoke up. "If I might make a suggestion . . . What say the ladies to a parlor game?"
"A parlor game?" Clio chanced a look in Rafe's direction. The pained expression on his face was clear. He'd rather eat slugs than play parlor games. "Parlor games sound delightful."
"Oh, I adore parlor games," said Daphne. "They're all so perfectly wicked. If they don't have kissing, there's blindfolded groping, or sitting on one another's lap."
"I was thinking of one particular parlor game. I learned it during my time on the Continent," Montague said.
"A Continental parlor game?" Daphne asked. "This sounds promising. Does it involve groping?"
"No, Lady Cambourne. But I suspect you'll enjoy it anyway." He smiled. "We take turns, and each player makes three statements. Two must be true, and one must be a falsehood. The others have to guess which of the three statements is the lie."
Daphne was quick to cut straws. When they were passed around, Rafe declined. Clio ended up with the shortest.
"But that will be too easy," Daphne complained. "We've known Clio all her life, and she hasn't any secrets."
"Hasn't she?" Reclining in the chair, Montague propped his left boot on his right knee. "I don't know, Lady Cambourne. I have a suspicion Miss Whitmore just might be full of secrets."