Say Yes to the Marquess(67)

“No,” he replied honestly.

He hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes. What kind of jackass kissed with his eyes open?

He’d witnessed it with his own lips.

But telling that truth wouldn’t do his cause any favors.

“Then I shall stand by my answer,” Daphne said. “Now whose turn is next?”

“Mine,” Rafe said.

“Your turn?” Clio asked. “I thought you weren’t playing.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Afraid you’ll have to wait for the next round, Brandon,” Sir Teddy Cambourne said. “My lady here cut straws and passed them around. That part’s been done. You can’t have a turn if you don’t have a straw.”

Rafe threw the man a look. A look with the force of a fist. “Really?”

Cambourne had nothing further to say. Neither did anyone else.

Rafe took the collective silence as his invitation. “First statement. In my original championship bout, I defeated Golding with a hard blow to the liver in the twenty-­third round. Second . . .” He settled into a chair. “The last time I spoke with my brother, Piers told me how much he regretted the extended absence imposed by his duties, because . . .”

Just get it out, man.

“Because he was so deeply in love,” he finished.

The room was quiet.

Until Daphne dropped a two-­word pin into the silence: “With Clio?”

“Yes, with Clio.”

Rafe rose from his chair again and began to stalk the carpet fringe. He was irritated beyond belief. What was wrong with these ­people? This shouldn’t be difficult for any of them to believe. Yes, his brother was reserved, but surely they all loved Clio. She was entirely lovable.

All too lovable.

He might have entered into this falsehood halfheartedly, but he was committed to it now.

Committed with everything he had.

“When we last spoke, Piers reminisced about her come-­out ball,” he said. “How she wore a gown of pale blue silk with lace at the edges. Pearls studded in her hair. He recalled how lovely she looked, even though she was nervous. He took note of how she greeted every guest with genuine kindness. And he told me that he knew, right then, there was no lady in the room her equal. That he felt like the luckiest of gentlemen, knowing she was promised to be his.” He swept a glance around the room. “He loved her then. He loves her still.”

Everyone was quiet as he returned to his chair.

“Not bad,” Bruiser muttered.

Cambourne smacked his thigh with his gloved palm. “Well, that’s a comfort. Isn’t it, dumpling?”

“You’re assuming that’s a truth,” Clio said evenly. “We’ve only heard two statements from Lord Rafe. I’m still waiting on the third.”

“The third. Right.” He cleared his throat. “I sleep in a lavender nightshirt. An embroidered one.”

Bruiser sipped his brandy. “How very literal of you.”

Daphne laughed. “Really, it’s no use. None of you know how to play this game at all. Your lavender nightshirt is almost as preposterous as Clio’s brewery. Do let’s play cards after all.”

Well, that was that. He seemed to have convinced her family at least, and Rafe didn’t know how to feel about it. Relieved, triumphant, disgusted with himself . . . His emotions were some combination of all these.

But his feelings were irrelevant. There was only one person in the room whose emotions mattered.

And if Rafe hadn’t managed to sway her tonight, there was no hope for him now.





Chapter Sixteen


Clio waited until midnight.

And then she waited a full hour more.

When she heard the footman pass down the corridor on his final patrol of the evening, she sat up in bed.

It was time.

She wrapped her dressing gown over her nightrail and cinched the sash tight. Then she plucked her chatelaine from the dressing table and ventured out into the corridor.

She went slowly. She had to; she hadn’t dared bring a candle. And she didn’t want to risk waking anyone with her footfalls or rattling keys.

At the end of the hall, she turned and hugged the right side of the corridor, counting the doors until she reached the fourth. After scouting the surface with her fingertips to find the keyhole, she inserted the master key from her chatelaine . . .

Held her breath . . .

And turned it in the lock.

Click.

The door swung inward, soundless on its well-­oiled hinges.

She waited in the doorway for a moment, giving her eyes time to adjust. A banked fire glowed in the hearth, coaxing her forward. Clio made her way into the room, then took a stub of beeswax candle from the mantelpiece and crouched to light it with the coals. The single flame painted the room with a weak yellow glow.