Say Yes to the Marquess(75)

“I confess, I’m shocked. I visited the late Lord Granville once a fortnight. He never mentioned it.”

Rafe cracked his neck. “We never talked, before or after, but he was always there in the crowd somewhere, all tight-­faced and stern. Never cheered. Never applauded. He just came to register his disapproval, I suppose.”

“Were you pleased to see him?”

He shook his head. “Made me so damned angry. Made me fight harder, too, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose in front of him. I had this wild idea . . . a hope, I suppose . . . that one day, I’d win and he’d come down from the crowd and shake my hand. Say, ‘Well done, Rafe.’ That would have been enough. In all my four years as champion, it never happened.

“The day I fought Dubose,” he went on, “I spied him there. And for the first time, I thought . . . if winning for four years straight doesn’t impress him, what would the old man do if he watched me lose?”

“Are you saying you lost the fight on purpose?”

“No. I can’t say that. That would be unfair to Dubose. He was bloody brilliant that day. But the thought of losing got in my head. And any trainer will tell you, once that idea’s in your head . . . it’s all over but the bleeding. I started making mistakes, slowing down, throwing wild punches that only caught air.”

“And you lost.”

“Badly.”

“Yes. I remember the bruises.” She winced. “So? What did your father do?”

Rafe took a long swallow of porter, fortifying himself for what came next. “He went home without a word to me. That night, he had a heart attack. You know the rest. Never recovered. Dead within the week.”

The words echoed dully in his chest.

“Oh, no.” Her voice softened. “Rafe. Surely you don’t blame yourself.”

“How could I not?” He massaged his temples. “I don’t have the faintest notion what was in his heart that night. Was he disgusted? Concerned? Pleased? Whatever emotion he kept so tightly bottled up in there, it finally exploded. And I’d lit the fuse.”

“Rafe, listen to me.” Her blue eyes drilled into his. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. He’d suffered two smaller attacks in the past year. The man wasn’t well.”

He acknowledged her words, but they did little to ease his guilt. If what she said was the truth, Rafe should have known. He should have been even more careful. If he hadn’t antagonized the man, he might have lived to see Piers come home.

“They sent me word he was dying. Asking for his son. I told myself I shouldn’t go. That I wasn’t the son he wanted. But in the end, I . . .” His voice broke. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Clio reached forward and took hold of his hand.

He started to pull back, but caught himself. Instead, he squeezed her fingers in silent thanks. If she could be brave enough to make the gesture, he ought to be man enough to accept it.

“So I went to the house. I stood at his bedside. He was half-­gone already, it seemed. Weakened, confused. I’ve seen a great many fighters in a bad way, but I’ve never seen a man go from indomitable to frail so quickly. He didn’t know where he was, or when. He just kept saying, ‘my son.’ Over and over again, ‘my son, fetch my son.’ I . . .” Rafe cleared the emotion from his throat. “I told him Piers was in Vienna. He didn’t seem to understand.”

“Perhaps he was asking for you.”

“Perhaps he was. Maybe he loved me all along. Perhaps he attended all those fights in hopes I’d come up into the crowd and reach out to him.” Rafe released her hand. “I only know that afterward, it all seemed so stupid. All those years of being bad in every way I could manage, heaping brimstone on my devilish reputation just to spite him. So much stubborn pride and wasted time.”

“It’s only wasted time if you don’t learn from it.”

“You believe that?”

“I have to believe that. Or else I’d weep every time I thought about the past eight years.”

He thought on it. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll never be able to go back and be a better son. But I have a chance—­if a dwindling one, after tonight—­to do right by Piers. We’re never going to be best friends, the two of us. He’ll never see his father again, and that’s my fault. I can’t do anything to bring the old man back, but at least I can—­”

“Keep his dog alive,” she finished. “And make sure his bride is waiting.”

He didn’t bother to deny it. “You say Piers doesn’t feel any passion for you. Maybe you’re right; I can’t honestly say. But he and our father were so much alike. I can’t set aside the possibility that my brother cares for you, deeply. In some reserved, distant Granville way. So much that losing you could break him.”