Say Yes to the Marquess by Tessa Dare
Billowing greatcoat. Black riding gloves. No hat. Just waves of dark, heavy hair. A gust of wind gave it a rakish tousle.
He was sin in human form. No wonder they called him the Devil's Own. Lucifer probably paid him to advertise.
"Good heavens," Daphne said. "Do you think he tries at that?"
Clio was glad to know it wasn't only her. "I can't imagine why he'd try for our benefit. I think it's just how he is."
"Surely you weren't expecting him."
"No." But perhaps she should have been.
"Oh, no. It looks as though he means to stay."
As the dust settled, they could see that a coach had followed Rafe down the drive. The castle's stables would be full to overflowing tonight.
"Can't you make him go away?" Daphne asked. "He's so brutish and common."
"He's still the son of a marquess."
"You know what I mean. He doesn't behave like one anymore. If he ever did."
"Yes, well. Every family has its idiosyncrasies." Clio patted her sister on the shoulder. "I'll go greet him. Anna and the housekeeper will show you and Phoebe to your chambers, so you can settle in."
As Clio went out to greet him, Rafe's silhouette grew larger and larger in her vision. And she felt herself growing pinker in response.
He nodded in greeting.
"This is a surprise," she said. "And I see you've brought friends."
A man alighted from the carriage--a slender fellow who wore a dark greatcoat and the sort of genial, unruffled manner one would need to possess if one were friends with Rafe. And from the coach's interior, he lifted the squattest, oldest, ugliest bulldog Clio had ever seen. Goodness. The poor, aged thing. Even its wrinkles had wrinkles.
Once placed on the ground, the dog promptly made a puddle in the drive.
"That's Ellingworth," Rafe said, removing his riding gloves.
Clio curtsied. "Good day, Mr. Ellingworth."
Rafe shook his head. "Ellingworth is the dog."
"You have a dog?"
"No. Piers has a dog." He looked at her as though she should know this.
But she didn't know this. How curious. Clio couldn't recall Piers ever mentioning a dog. Not aside from the hunting hounds his groundskeeper kept at Oakhaven.
"Some souvenir from his Oxford days," Rafe explained. "There's a story behind it. A mascot or a prank . . . maybe both. Anyhow, the dog's been living with me. He's fourteen years old. He requires a special diet and round-the-clock care. I had the veterinarian write it all out."
He reached into his pocket and handed Clio some notes.
Three full pages of them.
"Well," she said. "Now that I know Ellingworth is the dog, might I be introduced to your friend?"
"This is Bru--"
"Bruno Aberforth Montague," the man interrupted. "Esquire." He bowed over Clio's hand and brought it to his lips. "At your service."
"Charmed, I'm sure."
In reality, she wasn't entirely sure. Not about this Mr. Montague, and not about Rafe.
While Mr. Montague put the dog on a lead and walked him to the grassy edge of the drive, she went after some answers. "Dare I hope you've merely dropped by to sign the papers?"
"Absolutely not. It's like we discussed. I'm here to plan the wedding."
She froze. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes."
Don't panic, she told herself. Not yet.
"I thought you were in training. No distractions."
"I can train here in Kent. The country air is beneficial for the constitution. And you can keep the distractions to a minimum by cooperating with the wedding plans. Piers wants you to have everything you ever dreamed of on the grand day."
"So I'm to believe this is Piers's idea?"
He shrugged. "It might as well have been. Until he returns, I have the full weight of his fortune and title at my disposal."
Now, she told herself. Panic now.
"Rafe, I can't play your little game. Not this week. My sisters and brother-in-law just arrived."
"Excellent. That's three wedding guests we won't need to invite."
She rolled the papers in her hands. "You know very well there won't be any wedding."
He glanced at the castle. "And you've told your family this news?"
"No," she was forced to admit. "Not yet."
"Ah. So you're not truly decided."
"I am truly decided. And you are truly vexing. Rolling in like a storm cloud on your black horse, all dark and dramatic and unexpected. Demanding to plan weddings and bringing me lists."
"I'm all kinds of trouble, and you know it. But I know you, too."
Her breath caught. Then she reminded herself that what sounded like flirting was often just male presumption. "You don't know me nearly as well as you think you do, Rafe Brandon."
"I know this much. You won't turn me away."
Rafe watched her carefully.
It wasn't any hardship, to watch her carefully. But he had extra reason today.
Clio might not have made her final decision on marriage, but it was clear she didn't want another pair of houseguests right now.
Another trio of houseguests, if one counted Ellingworth.
He took the lead from Bruiser and crouched beside the dog. He was so old, he was completely deaf, but Clio didn't know that.
"Not to worry, Ellingworth." He scratched the dog behind the ear. "Miss Whitmore is a model of etiquette and generosity. She wouldn't turn an old, defenseless dog out into the cold." He slid a glance at Clio. "Now would she?"
"Hmmph. I thought champions are supposed to fight fair."
"We're not in a boxing ring. Not that I can see." After a moment's thought, he decided to take a chance. "Is that a new frock?"
"I . . ." She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. "I don't see that it matters."
Oh, it mattered. He knew these things mattered.
Rafe might not know a damn thing about planning weddings, but he knew a thing or two--or twelve--about women.
This was all Clio needed. A bit of attention. Appreciation. She'd been left waiting for so many years, she was feeling unwanted. Well, that was bollocks. Just look at her. Any man who didn't want this woman would be a damned fool.
Piers wasn't a fool.
Unfortunately, neither was Rafe.
"The color suits you," he said.
And it did. The green played well with the gold of her hair, and the silk fit her generous curves like a dream. The kind of dream he shouldn't be having.
He rose to his feet, letting his gaze sweep her one last time, from toes to crown.
By the time their eyes met, the flush on her cheeks had deepened to a ripe-berry hue. He smiled a little. Clio Whitmore's complexion had more shades of pink than a draper's warehouse. Every time Rafe thought he'd seen them all, he managed to tease out one more.
Just imagine teasing her in bed.
No, you idiot. Don't. Don't imagine it.
But as usual, his thoughts were three paces ahead of his judgment. The image erupted in his mind's eye, as unbidden as it was vivid. Clio, breathless. Naked. Under him. Stripped of all her good manners and inhibitions. Begging him to learn her every secret shade of pink.
Rafe blinked hard. Then he took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between "flying carriage" and "beer fountain."
He looked nowhere but her eyes. "We'll send in our things, then."
"I haven't said yes."
"You haven't said no."
And she wouldn't. They both knew it. No matter how much she disliked Rafe, no matter how much she wanted him gone . . . Her conscience wouldn't let her turn him out.
Her little sigh of surrender stirred him more than it ought. "I'll have the maids prepare two more rooms."
He nodded. "We'll be in once I've put up my gelding."
"We have grooms to do that," she said. "I was fortunate that all my uncle's housestaff stayed on."
"I always put up my own horse
Rafe walked his gelding toward the carriage house for a good brushing down. Whenever he came in from a hard ride--or a hard run, a hard bout--he needed a task like this to calm him. All that energy didn't just dissipate into the air.
And tonight, he needed a private word with a certain someone. A certain someone who'd just up and declared that his name was Montague.
"What the devil was all that about?" he asked, as soon as Clio was out of earshot. "Who's this Montague person? We agreed you'd act as my valet."
"Well, that was before I saw this place! Cor, look at it."
"I've looked at it."
The castle was impressive, Rafe had to admit. But he'd seen finer. He'd been raised in finer.
"I want a proper room in that thing," Bruiser said, gesturing at the stone edifice. "No, I want my own tower. I certainly don't want to be your valet. Stuck below stairs, eating my meals in the servants' hall with the housemaids. Not that I can't appreciate a fresh-faced housemaid on occasion. Or, for that matter, a well-turned footman."
That was Bruiser. He'd tup anything. "How egalitarian of you, Mr. Bruno Aberforth Montague."
"Esquire. Don't forget the esquire."
Oh, Rafe was trying very hard to forget the esquire. "Miss Whitmore's sister is here. That's Lady Cambourne. Along with her husband, Sir Teddy Cambourne."
"So?" Bruiser said. "I know you try hard to forget it, but you're Lord Rafe Brandon. I have no problem speaking with you."
"That's different. I don't answer to that title anymore. I walked away from all this years ago."
"And now you're walking back. How difficult can it be?"
More difficult than you could imagine.
Hell, Rafe was worried about feeling like an imposter, and he'd been raised on these grand estates.
"Listen," he said. "You're the son of a washerwoman and a tavernkeeper, who makes his living organizing illegal prizefights. And you've just inserted yourself with a class of people so far above your usual world they might as well be wearing clouds. Just how do you plan to pull this off?"
"Relax. You know me, I get on with everyone. And I have a new hat."
Rafe looked at the felted beaver twirling on Bruiser's finger. "That's my hat."
"At dinner and suchlike, I'll just watch what you do."
Wonderful plan, that. Rafe scarcely remembered proper etiquette anymore.
"And then there's my secret weapon." With a glance in either direction, he pulled a small brass object from his pocket. "Picked up this little beauty in a pawnbroker's."
Rafe looked at it. "A quizzing glass. Really."
"I'm telling you, these things scream upper crust. You should get one, Rafe. No, I mean it. Someone talks over your head? Quizzing glass. Someone asks a question you can't answer? Quizzing glass."
"You honestly think a stupid monocle is all you need to blend in with the aristocracy?"
Bruiser raised the quizzing glass and peered at Rafe through the lens. Solemnly.
The idiot might be onto something.
"Just don't cock this up," he warned.
"Oh, I'm not going to cock this up. Remember, I'm your second. I'm always in your corner."
But this wasn't a prizefight. It was something much more dangerous.
As a visitor to Twill Castle, Rafe would be out of his element. When he was out of his element, he grew restless. And when he grew restless, his impulsive, reckless nature came to the fore. People got hurt.
He would need to be careful here.
"So when is the wedding planner arriving?" he asked.
Bruiser went curiously silent.
"You did engage the services of a wedding planner?"
"Certainly I did. His name is Bruno Aberforth Montague, Esquire."
Rafe cursed. "I can't believe this."
Bruiser lifted his hands in defense. "Where was I supposed to find a wedding planner? I'm not even certain such people exist. But it doesn't matter. This is going to be perfect. You'll see."
"I doubt that. You know less about planning weddings than I do."
"No, no. That's not true."
Bruiser's eyes took on that bright, excited glint that Rafe had learned to recognize over the years. And dread.
"Think about it, Rafe. I'm a trainer and promoter. It's what I do all the time. I find two people, evenly matched. Send out the word. Draw crowds desperate to see them in the same place. And most of all, I know how to get a fighter's head"--he poked a single finger into the center of Rafe's forehead--"into the ring, long before fight day."
"Bruiser."
"Aye?"
"Take your finger off my head, or I will break it."
He complied, patting Rafe's shoulders. "There's that fighting spirit."
Rafe brushed down the horse with vigorous strokes. "This will never work. It's going to be a disaster."
"It will work. I promise you. We're going to drape her in silks. Drown her in flowers and fancy cakes, until she's giddy with bridal excitement. Until she already sees herself walking down that aisle, clear as day in her mind. I'm your man, Rafe. No one knows how to drum up anticipation and spectacle better than me."
"Better than I," Rafe corrected.
Bruiser arched one eyebrow and lifted the quizzing glass.
Rafe finished hanging his tack on the hooks. "Let's just go inside." Together, they walked out of the stables and toward the castle. A few paces from the door, he stopped. "One more thing. You don't kiss her hand."
"She didn't seem to mind it."
Rafe wheeled on his boot and grabbed him by the shirtfront. "You don't kiss her hand."
Bruiser lifted his own hands in a gesture of surrender. "Very well. I don't kiss her hand."
"Ever. At all." When he thought his message had sunk in, Rafe released him.
Bruiser pulled on his waistcoat. "Do you fancy this girl?"
"She's not a girl. She's a gentlewoman. One who will soon be a lady. And no, I don't fancy her."
"Good," Bruiser said, "because that could become awkward. Seeing as how she's engaged to your brother and all."
"Believe me. I haven't forgotten it. That's the reason we're here."
"I know you have a liking for those fair-haired, buxom types. But you usually don't like them quite so wholesome," Bruiser said. "Nor so . . . What's the word?"
"Taken. She's taken."
Piers would marry Clio. It was a truth they'd all grown up knowing. The match just made sense. It was what their parents had wanted. It was what Piers wanted. It was what Clio wanted, even if she'd forgotten it temporarily.
And it was what Rafe wanted, too. What he needed.
"It's not a concern," he said. "To her, I'm a coarse, barely literate brute with few redeeming qualities. As for her . . . She's so innocent and tightly laced, she probably bathes in her shift and dresses in the dark. What would I do with a woman like that?"
Everything.
He'd do everything with a woman like that. Twice.
"I'm not going to touch her," he said. "She's not mine. She never will be."
"Indeed." Bruiser rolled his eyes and dusted off his hat. "Definitely no years of pent-up lusting there. Glad we have that sorted."
Chapter Three
For once, Clio was grateful for her sister's choosy nature.
As Anna had predicted, Daphne and Teddy didn't care for either the Blue Room or the larger chamber across the corridor. Instead, they preferred an apartment in the recently modernized West Tower.
Clio couldn't understand how papered walls could ever trump ancient character and a superior view, but at least she had two available rooms for her unexpected guests.
She showed Mr. Montague into the north-facing room. "I hope you will be comfortable here."
The man pulled a quizzing glass from his pocket, lifted it to his eye, and made a great show of surveying the space--from the tapestry wall hangings to the Louis XIV armchair rescued from a French chateau.
"It will suffice," he said.
"Very
"Wheeee!"
The faint cry came from behind the closed door of Mr. Montague's room. It was promptly followed by a springy sort of thud. The kind of sound that one might expect to result when a man leapt into the air and dropped his weight onto a mattress.
Followed by more bouncy noises. And something that sounded like a chortle of glee.
Clio tilted her head and looked at Rafe. "Where did you say Mr. Montague hails from?"
"I didn't."
She paused, listening to new sounds. The sharp reports of cupboards opening and closing.
"Look at all this storage." The muffled words were followed by an appreciative whistle. "Good Christ, there's a bar."
She raised her eyebrows at Rafe.
He gave a defensive shrug. "He's one of Piers's diplomatic associates. Probably last stationed in some remote, godforsaken outpost. You know how it is."
Declining to question it further, she showed him into the bedchamber. "This is the Blue Room. I trust it will suit you and your dog."
"I told you, he's not my dog."
The dog that wasn't his tottered all of three feet forward before dropping flat to the carpet. A thick puddle of drool spread from his jowls.
Rafe was more thorough in his appraisal of the space. He prowled the chamber, pinging from one piece of furniture to the next. His gaze skipped over every surface, never lingering.
"There's a lovely view of the gardens and countryside, if you'd care to have a . . ." Clio watched as he ducked and peered under a wardrobe. "My lord, is something wrong?"
"Yes." He'd stopped beside the carved rosewood bed, frowning. "There are twenty pillows on this bed."
"I don't think there are twenty."
"One." He plucked a tasseled, roll-shaped cushion from the bed. Then he cast it aside. It bounced onto the floor and rolled to a stop just short of Ellingworth's drool.
"Two." He reached for another and flicked it aside. "Three." Another. "Four."
One by one, he tossed the pillows from the head of the bed toward the foot of the mattress, where they mounted in a haphazard heap.
"Fourteen . . . fifteen . . ." Finally, he held the last pillow in his hand and shook it at her. "Sixteen."
"I told you there weren't twenty."
"Who the devil needs sixteen pillows? A man only has one head."
"But he has two eyes."
"Which are shut when he sleeps."
Clio sighed. "Perhaps you've been residing in a storehouse, but I know you weren't raised in a barn."