Say Yes to the Marquess(100)

Oh, yes. They were.

And Rafe felt another scene coming on now.

His brother had an arm around Clio. Like it belonged there. It was enough to make Rafe taste smoke and smell blood.

Step away from her, he willed. She’s not yours.

“Piers, we need to talk,” Clio said.

“Yes, I think we should. I’m beginning to suspect I never actually left the Continent, and this is all just one elaborate hallucination.” Piers cleared his throat and brought out that classic Granville ring of authority. “Will someone tell me, in simple words, just what is going on?”

“I will.” Phoebe meandered into the room, holding a book. “Clio’s not going to marry you. She’s going to live here in this castle and open a brewery.”

“Thank you,” Piers said. “Now I know I’m going mad.”

“She’s not yours,” Rafe said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rafe knew he was the one who’d be begging all the pardons. But it had to come out, and he couldn’t wait. “You heard me. She’s not yours anymore.”

His brother’s gaze narrowed to an icy beam of interrogation. “What did you do?”

“Only what she asked.”

“You bastard. Did you touch her?”

“I—­”

“Rafe, don’t,” Clio said, sounding frantic. “Please.”

Her words were a stab to the heart.

Granted, it was a self-­inflicted wound. He’d told her all week she should marry Piers. He’d repeated that same stupidity this morning. And now the man himself was back, setting all her insecurities to rest with a worldly air and a hero’s mantle. And kisses.

Why would she ever choose Rafe?

If Rafe could choose to be any man in this room, he wouldn’t choose Rafe.

Clio turned to Piers. “You must understand. Your brother’s been so loyal to you. When I had doubts about the wedding, he tried to change my mind. He made every effort to convince me, said such lovely things on your behalf. That’s not all he’s done. He’s managed Oakhaven in your absence. And wait until you see what marvelous care he’s taken of . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she glanced about the room, ducking to peer under the furnishings.

“Oh, dear. Has anyone seen the dog?”





Chapter Twenty-five


Ellingworth! Ellingworth, darling, are you here?”

Clio hurried up and down the garden paths, ducking to peer under every bench and shrub, and pausing at each corner to wipe the rain from her eyes. They’d searched the entire castle already. He had to be outside somewhere.

The mud puddles sucked at her heeled slippers, slowing her down. Eventually, she gave up on them, kicking her shoes off. Her stockings were already wet through.

Slippers clutched in one hand and skirts gathered in the other, she began to race down the row of neatly trimmed hedges and arbors. The longer they went without finding the bulldog, the more her anxiousness increased. Dogs were made to withstand some rain and chill. But a dog this old, already in poor health?

Poor Ellingworth.

Poor Rafe.

It would kill Rafe if something happened to that dog. He’d taken care of the beast so faithfully all these years. Those meticulous diets, all the special veterinary care . . .

But it wouldn’t only be the wasted effort, or the disappointment of letting his brother down. Rafe loved that ugly, old dog. Clio knew he did.

And Clio loved Rafe.

She began to run faster. A thorny branch caught the puff of her sleeve, and she yanked free, ripping the fabric.

“Ellingworth! Ellingworth, where are you?”

She stumbled over a rock in the path, wrenching her ankle and nearly sprawling face-­first into the mud. She caught herself on hands and knees instead.

“Damn.”

She pushed to her feet, wiped her hands on the ruined ivory silk, and trudged on, pushing her panic aside. Focus, Clio. Fear wasn’t helpful now. She began preparing a list of orders in her mind. The moment they located Ellingworth, she would send one of the drivers for the veterinarian. Direct the housekeeper to prepare hot water, warmed towels. Ask cook for a mince of beef, mixed with raw egg. Did dogs take beef tea? It was good for chilled ­people, after all.

They had to find that dog. They would find that dog.

As she crossed beneath an arbor, she pulled up and stopped. A flash of white caught her eye.

There. On the far side of the garden, low to the ground. Beneath the bank of apricot-­colored roses. Was that . . . ?

Letting her skirts fall into the mud, she swiped aside the rain-­matted hair from her brow and blinked into the rain. Her labored breathing made it difficult to concentrate. She struggled to calm herself and look sharp.

“Oh, no.”