Say Yes to the Marquess(53)
Even an ill-mannered brute like Rafe knew that the gown was the most crucial part of this enterprise. He just hoped his trainer was right about the quality of the materials and workmanship. This would need to be a gown with silk so fine and lace so intricate that when Clio saw her reflection in the looking glass, she would want to never take it off.
And then she’d have to get married.
That, or become a batty old spinster who roamed her castle in a decaying wedding gown. Rafe didn’t think the latter would suit Clio, but he wasn’t going to mention the possibility, just in case.
Thump.
The sound drew him to a halt.
Strange. Perhaps the servants were moving things.
Or maybe the place was haunted. Any castle worth its parapets ought to have at least one ghost.
Then it happened again.
Thump.
Followed by a stifled cry of pain.
Both sounds were coming from behind a set of double doors. If he wasn’t mistaken, that would be the chamber designated as Clio’s dressing room.
He was at the door in seconds. “Miss Whitmore?” He pounded on the door. “Clio. Are you well?”
After endless moments, the door opened a fraction. He spied an inch-wide slice of Clio’s face through the gap. One blue eye and a quirk of pink lips.
“Can I help you, Rafe?”
“Yes, you can bloody well help me. You can tell me what the devil’s going on. What’s been taking so long, and what was that sound? Is someone moving the furnishings?”
“No, I . . .” He could tell she was struggling for breath, composing her words.
Then it was Clio’s shriek he’d heard. Her cheek was red, and her eyes—well, the one eye he could see—looked teary. Damn it.
He lowered his voice. “Tell me what’s happened. Now.”
“It’s nothing. I promise you.”
“Then open the door so I can see for myself.”
“Rafe, I’m fine. Please don’t mind me.”
“I mind you. You’ve been in there for ages. I heard you cry out. Your face is red. You’re scarcely able to speak. And there were thumps.”
“Thumps?”
“Maybe clunks.”
Her mouth quirked. “Clunks.”
“Noises.” His hand balled in a fist. “I heard noises. You’re visibly overset. Something’s going on in there. Either you open the door, or I break it down.”
That single blue eye widened. “You’d truly break down the door?”
“You saw me today in the tavern. If I thought you were in danger, I’d break through the wall.”
That single blue eye blinked.
She must know this about him by now. He enjoyed a bit of witty banter as much as the next man, but when his blood started pumping, he couldn’t bother with words. What came out of him was action.
“Very well. Since you insist.” She stepped back, opening the door. “See?”
Oh, he saw.
He saw a lot of her that he probably shouldn’t be seeing.
She was dressed in a gown of delicate ivory lace. However, the lace was fitted so tightly that it was stretched to the point of transparency. Her breasts overflowed the bodice in twin fleshy scoops, and . . .
And his gaze got rather stuck in the dark, mysterious valley between them. The rest of the gown could have been more lace . . . or tweed or crimson velvet. Or on fire, for all he knew.
“I . . . That’s . . .” He had no words. None that he could utter aloud.
“Is this some sort of joke?” she asked. “This is your idea of a wedding gown?”
“Not particularly. Or generally.”
That gown was entirely unsuitable for walking down the aisle of a church. However, when it came to the wedding night . . .
Damnation. His thoughts could not stray there. His gaze needed tethering, too.
Eyes, Rafe.
The other pair.
She said, “And here I worried you might succeed in overwhelming me with elegance and finery.”
“It’s not . . . bad.”
She leveled a gaze at him. “I look like I’ve been cast as an angel in the bawdy-house nativity play.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Someone has to get us sinners to church.”
“I can’t even move.” She took three stuttering steps in demonstration, waddling into the corridor like an arthritic duck. “The thump you heard was me falling over.”
“Twice?”
“Yes, twice.” She grimaced. “Thank you for rubbing salt in the wound.”
“Try another gown, then.”
“I did. I tried them all. They’re all too small.”
“But I thought Bruiser specially requested them based on your measurements.”
“I didn’t give him my measurements. And surely Anna would have . . .” Confusion drew little furrows in her brow. Then some sudden realization ironed them flat. “Daphne. Of course. This would be just the sort of trick she’d pull.”