Say Yes to the Marquess(61)

Anna entered, carrying an envelope. “A message has arrived for you, Miss Whitmore. The bearer is downstairs waiting for your reply.”

“At this hour? How mysterious.” She broke the seal and opened the letter. “It’s an invitation.”

And a welcome change of subject. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

Clio scanned the paper. “We’re invited to a ball. Tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” Daphne asked.

“Apparently Lord and Lady Pennington are in residence at their estate near Tunbridge Wells. They apologize for the short notice, but they only just learned we were in Kent.” She lowered the paper. “Well?”

“We must accept.” Daphne perked with excitement. “I haven’t been to nearly enough balls as a married lady.”

“Excellent. Then you and Teddy can go. I’ll stay home with Phoebe.”

“Clio, you must come, too. There will be gossip if you don’t.”

“There will be gossip if I do attend,” she said, moving to the escritoire. “That’s what I’m keen to avoid.”

“Yes, but this time it will be different,” Daphne said. “We can tell everyone about the wedding plans. Then they’ll know it’s really happening this time.”

Except that it isn’t.

“What about Phoebe?” she asked.

“Let her come, as well. It’s only a small country affair. She won’t dance, of course.”

“I don’t wish to go,” Phoebe said. “I’d be bored and out of place.”

“Yes, but that’s why you should come,” Daphne said. “So you start learning how to conceal it.”

Clio arrowed a glance at her sister. Not that it did much good.

“She’s sixteen years old,” Daphne said. “She needs some exposure to society.”

Even if she expressed it poorly, Clio knew her sister had a point. Sooner or later, Phoebe would have to develop the skill of interacting with ­people outside their family.

“I don’t want to go,” Phoebe said, turning on the dressing-­table bench. “It would be a miserable ordeal. Don’t make me.”

“Oh, kitten. Daphne has the right of it. You will need to start moving in society soon, and a small, friendly ball is a good place to begin.” She tapped the envelope. “I won’t force you, but I hope you’ll choose to attend.”

Phoebe considered. “Is Lord Rafe attending? I’ll go if he does.”

“No,” Daphne objected. “He can’t. Montague would be fine. But we can’t have Rafe. Surely the Penningtons didn’t mean to include him.”

Clio bristled at her sister’s words. “The invitation is extended to me and my guests. He’s one of my guests.”

“Yes, but they didn’t know he’s here. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited us at all. Don’t suggest it, Clio. You were kind enough to allow him to stay here at the castle. He’s Granville’s brother; you haven’t a choice. But he’s not welcome in polite society anymore.”

An emotion flared in Clio’s breast, hot and volatile. She wanted to gather up Daphne’s casual disdain, shape it into a tiny ball, and give it a solid whack with a tennis racket.

It was ridiculous, the idea that a champion prizefighter could possibly need her to defend him. He probably wouldn’t care to attend the ball anyhow.

But it shouldn’t be up to Daphne—­or anyone else—­to shut him out.

You’re truly something, he told her. Never doubt it.

Rafe shouldn’t doubt it, either.

“Lord Rafe Brandon,” she said, “is always welcome where I’m concerned.” Clio checked her hair in the mirror and smoothed the front of her gray silk. “If he wishes to join us, that is.”

And with that, she left the room to search out Rafe and ask.

“Still no ring?” Rafe asked the question without breaking stride.

“Still . . . no . . . ring,” Bruiser replied. Unlike Rafe, he was breathless. “Can’t we slow down a touch?”

“No.”

They’d already completed four laps of the castle wall’s perimeter. It wasn’t nearly enough. Rafe still felt her softness clinging to his fingertips. He still tasted her on his lips. He still heard her soft moans and sighs echoing in his ears.

At this rate, he would be running hard all night. Even then, he’d never run far enough to leave his guilt behind.

What he’d done with Clio this afternoon had been so wrong.

It had also been beautiful, tender, and sublime.

But wrong, nonetheless. And entirely his fault.

Over the years, he’d learned to rein in his impulses, pull his punches. But when she’d let that lacy frock slide down her body, revealing the thinnest linen shift the Devil could weave . . . Inviting—­nay, pleading for his touch . . .