Say Yes to the Marquess(3)

She saw. And now she felt unbearably foolish. In their youth, Rafe had always teased her, but of all the mischief he’d pulled over the years . . .

“Sorry to ruin your fun,” he said.

“My fun?”

“It’s a popular enough female pastime. Trying to save me from myself.” He threw her a knowing look as he sauntered past.

Clio blushed in response. But that was the wrong word. A “blush” was a whisper of color, and right now her cheeks must be screaming. Just ridiculously pink, like a flamingo or something.

Wretched, teasing man.

Once, when Clio had been a small girl, she’d seen a fistfight in the local village. A man buying hazels challenged a merchant over the honesty of his scales. The two argued, shouted . . . a scuffle broke out. She’d never forgotten the way the atmosphere changed in an instant. Everyone in the vicinity felt it. The air prickled with danger.

She’d never witnessed another bout of fisticuffs. But she felt the same prickle in the air whenever Rafe Brandon was near. He seemed to carry things with him, the way other men carried portmanteaux or walking sticks. Things like intensity. Brute power, held in check—­but only just. That sense of danger mingled with anticipation. And the promise that at any moment, the rules that governed society could be rendered meaningless.

Were his rakish exploits any mystery? Really, the corsets must unlace themselves.

“I thought you’d given up prizefighting,” she said.

“Everyone thinks I’ve given up prizefighting. Which is what will make my return to the sport so very exciting. And lucrative.”

That followed a strange sort of logic, she supposed.

“Now explain yourself.” He crossed his arms. His large, massive, all-­the-­words-­for-­big arms. “What the devil are you doing? You should know better than to come to a neighborhood like this alone.”

“I do know better, and I didn’t come alone. I have two servants waiting outside.” On a stupid impulse, she added, “And we have a signal.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “A signal.”

“Yes. A signal.” She forged on before he could inquire further. “I would not have needed to come here at all if you’d left some other way of reaching you. I tried calling at the Harrington.”

“I no longer have rooms at the Harrington.”

“So they informed me. They gave this as your forwarding address.” She followed him toward what seemed to be the living quarters. “Do you truly live here?”

“When I’m training, I do. No distractions.”

Clio looked around. She hadn’t been in many bachelor apartments, but she’d always imagined them to be cluttered and smelling of unwashed things—­dishes, linens, bodies.

Lord Rafe’s warehouse didn’t smell of anything unpleasant. Just sawdust, coffee, and the faint aroma of . . . oil of wintergreen, perhaps? But the place was spartan in its furnishings. In one corner, she glimpsed a simple cot, a cupboard and a few shelves, and a small table with two stools.

He removed two tumblers from the cupboard and placed them on the table. Into one, he poured a few inches of sherry. Into the other, he emptied the remaining contents of a coffeepot, added a touch of pungent syrup from a mysterious brown bottle, then into it all he cracked three raw eggs.

She watched with queasy fascination as he stirred the slimy mess with a fork. “Surely you’re not going to—­”

“Drink that?” He lifted the tumbler, drained it one long swallow, and pounded the glass to the tabletop. “Three times a day.”

“Oh.”

He pushed the sherry toward her. “That’s yours. You look like you could use it.”

Clio stared at the glass as waves of nausea pitched her stomach to and fro. “Thank you.”

“It’s the best I can do. As you can see, I’m not set up to receive social calls.”

“I won’t take much of your time, I promise. I only stopped by to—­”

“Extend a wedding invitation. I’ll send my regrets.”

“What? No. I mean . . . I gather you’ve heard that Lord Granville is finally returning from Vienna.”

“I heard. And Piers has given you permission to plan the most lavish wedding imaginable. I signed off on the accounts myself.”

“Yes, well. About those signatures . . .” Clio twisted the papers rolled in her hand.

He walked away from the table. “This will have to be quick. I can’t be wasting time on chatter.”

He stopped beneath a bar hanging parallel to the floor some three feet over his head. In a burst of quickness, he jumped to grab it. Then he began to lift himself by means of flexing his arms.