Say Yes to the Marquess(64)
But nothing could ever come from it. Rafe was just a bit of excitement to her, and his touch could only mean ruin for Clio. He’d made his reputation, and now he had to live with it. Most dangerous of all, she had a way of destroying his hard-earned control.
If he cared for her at all, he would stay far away.
“I don’t know where you got such an idea,” he told Bruiser. “That’s absurd. She’s . . . And we. . . .” He gestured uselessly. “I’m not in love with her.”
Bruiser rolled his eyes. “You’re right. You are bollocks at lying. Let’s just go inside.”
Chapter Fifteen
In the library a half hour later, Rafe stared longingly at the crystal brandy decanter. He could have used a stiff drink right now. But whatever it was Clio wanted to discuss, he needed to keep his head clear.
“I’ve been looking all over. There you are.”
And there Clio was, standing in the doorway. Muddling his thoughts all over again.
Damnation. Rafe had been counting on having some warning. A bit more time to compose himself before he saw her. As it was, he felt he’d been thrown unawares into a pool of shimmering silk and luminous beauty.
It was swim or drown, and he was breathless. Flailing.
“I . . .”
She’d been so soft and warm in his hands.
Sweet heaven, the taste of her.
“Ahem.” Bruiser cleared his throat. Pointedly. He was already standing.
After a moment’s lapse, Rafe shot to his feet, too. Christ, was he so far removed from his upbringing that he’d forgotten to stand when a lady entered the room?
Even once he’d risen from the chair, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They kept wanting to reach in her direction.
He crossed his arms and tucked them close. He had to get hold of himself.
He said, “You were looking for me.”
“Yes.” She gestured with an envelope. “For you both, actually. We’ve been invited to a ball tomorrow. The Penningtons have an estate near Tunbridge. It’s only a few hours’ drive. Daphne’s keen on attending, and even Phoebe expressed an interest. Will you join us?”
“Jolly good,” Bruiser said, in that affected toffish accent. “But of course we shall.”
“No.” Rafe glanced at him. “We shan’t.”
“Why not?” Clio asked.
“Nothing good could come of my attending. I don’t belong at those things anymore. I never did.”
“Why would you say that?” she asked. “Of course you belong.”
“Oh, indeed. Everyone wants a brawling prizefighter at their high-class party.”
“Maybe not, but they all want lords. No matter what else you’ve done in your life, you will always be the son of a marquess. Birth and lineage are everything to the ton.”
Yes, birth and lineage were everything to the ton. And that was precisely the reason Rafe despised them. He would rather be judged on his accomplishments.
“If you come,” she said, “I might even forgive you for missing my debut all those years ago.”
And then she gave him a smile.
A warm, flirtatious smile, curved like an archer’s bow. Its arrow struck home, hitting him square in the heart.
He tried his best to appear unskewered. “You’re generous to invite us. But we must decline.”
Bruiser tugged on his waistcoat. “Come along, old chap. Upon my word, I don’t see why we—”
Rafe threw him a glare. “We. Must. Decline.”
“Very well.” His trainer lifted his hands. “We must decline.”
Clio lowered her gaze and fidgeted with the invitation. “I see. Then if you’ll pardon me, I’ll go write the response.”
As she left the room, her lips thinned to a tight, unbending line.
With a curse, Rafe charged into the corridor, turning just in time to glimpse Clio ducking into the library.
He followed her inside. “We should talk. About earlier. About everything.”
“Must it be this moment? I need to write this reply, if you don’t mind. The messenger has been waiting for an hour.” She sat down at the desk.
“You must understand. I’m not welcome at these things.”
“Of course I understand.” She sighed, then let the pen clatter to the blotter. “Actually, I don’t understand at all. For eight years, I’ve reached out to you with one invitation after another. I don’t know how you can say no one wants you at these things. I want you at these things. I always have.”
“What were you hoping, Clio? That I’d come to the ball, dressed in a black tailcoat and tall, gleaming boots? Stand at the top of the stairs, be introduced to the room as Lord Rafe Brandon of Somerset? Search you out in the crowded room and make my way to you?” He chuckled. “Ask you for a dance?”