“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.”