Say Yes to the Marquess(24)
She tugged an old hopcart out from the shadows. The wooden, hand-pulled wagon was just the perfect size for the bulldog. “There. Won’t that suit him? We’ll pull him back to the castle once it stops raining, then store this in the carriage house. This way, the servants can take him on walks.”
“Not bad, but it’s lacking in pillows,” he said gravely. “It needs at least a dozen.”
She ignored his teasing. Mostly.
Once he’d deposited the dog in the cart, and she’d arranged her shawl as a blanket, Rafe stood and surveyed her appearance. “You’re wet.”
“Just a little.” She hugged herself.
He shrugged out of his coat and draped its weight about her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, looking out at the rain. “I suppose we should stay here until it stops.”
Clio gathered the lapels and pulled the coat tight about her. The thing must have weighed ten pounds, at least. The wool was still warm with the heat of his body. But the best part was how it smelled—intensely wonderful and intensely Rafe. She inhaled deep, surreptitiously breathing in the scents of coffee, leather, oil of wintergreen. And that faint musk that was uniquely his. She’d never been so thoroughly enveloped by another person’s scent before. It felt intimate somehow.
Almost like an embrace.
She laughed at herself.
Says the girl who’s never once been embraced.
She said, “I’ve been conferring with the land agent ever since the property came to me. We’re planning to convert this tower into an oast.”
“An oast.”
“You do know what an oast is, don’t you?”
“Of course I know what an oast is.” He crossed his arms and regarded her. “You tell me what you think an oast is, and I’ll judge if you’re correct.”
She shook her head. Even to a relative innocent like Clio, sometimes men could be so transparent. At a moment like this, it was comforting.
“An oast is a tall, round building for drying hops and malt,” she said. “To convert this tower, we’ll need to build a great kiln here on the ground floor. Upstairs, there’d be a flat platform for drying. Then a vent at the top to draw the heat upward. There, now. How was that definition?”
“Acceptable.”
“And that’s just the beginning. Not only is the soil in this region ideal for hopfields, but we’ve a river with clear, crisp water that runs straight through the property. Once we complete the oast, we’ll start building the brewery.”
His head jerked in surprise. “Wait, wait. A brewery?”
“It’s as I told you last night. I mean to do something with the place.”
“You want to run a brewery.” His gazed raked her. “You.”
“Yes. Twill Castle is a touch far from London, but just here in Kent we can sell our product to countless public houses. There’s ample storage space under the castle.”
“Ah. So you agree. Those are cellars.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Have it your way. They’re cellars. And they’re perfect. The entire scheme is perfect. Even you must admit it.”
“I’m not admitting anything.” He shoved a damp swoop of hair from his brow. “It’s a terrible idea. What could you know about beer?”
“More than you know about weddings.”
Over the past eight years, she’d studied not only foreign etiquette and world events, but agricultural news and land management, too. Her mother claimed it was all in service of becoming the perfect bride. She must be prepared to converse with her husband on any topic that might interest or concern him.
Clio hadn’t minded, truly. Reading all those newspapers and books helped pass the time while she was . . . waiting, on one thing and another. Chaperoning Phoebe with her tutors. Sitting through Daphne’s dressmaker fittings. Keeping vigil by Mama’s sickbed, after the doctors declared there was nothing more to be done. Clio read through it all.
Then came the day she learned that this castle belonged to her. And she realized that something else belonged to her, too. All that knowledge she’d accumulated . . . It was hers.
She was as prepared to manage an estate as Piers could have been, what with his incessant traveling. There was only one significant difference that set them apart.
Unfortunately, it was the one difference everyone—including Rafe—couldn’t seem to see past.
“You’re a woman.” He pronounced this statement as though it were the beginning, end, and sum of any argument.
“And you think a woman can’t run a brewery? Or is it just that you don’t believe in me?”