Say Yes to the Marquess(79)

“Answer me,” he said, forceful and commanding as any marquess. “I demand to know the truth. Is there someone else?”

“Yes. There is someone else. There’s me.”

His eyes flashed with surprise.

“There’s me,” she repeated. “I’ve spent a great deal of time alone these past eight years. I’ve come to know myself and my own capabilities. I’m resilient. I can withstand a little gossip. Or even a lot of it. I can inherit an estate and devote myself not only to its preservation, but its improvement. Because I’ve taken all those lessons and accomplishments that were supposed to make me the ideal diplomat’s wife—­and I’ve made them my own. At some point, while you were roaming the globe, making treaties and dividing the spoils of war, I quietly declared my own independence. I am the sovereign nation of Clio now. And there will be no terms of surrender.”

Rafe was quiet.

“Well?” she asked.

He shrugged, noncommittal.

“Too melodramatic at the end? No good?”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“Not bad?” She grabbed the discarded pillow and bashed his shoulder with it. Repeatedly. “It was brilliant, and you know it.”

“Very well, very well.” Laughing, he seized one corner of the cushion and tugged, drawing her close. “It was brilliant.”

Clio’s heart swelled in her chest. His praise was . . . Well, it was better than cake.

“You’re brilliant,” he whispered. “If Piers doesn’t fall to his knees and beg you to reconsider, he’s a damned fool.”

Heat and desire built between them, quick as fire taking hold of dry grass. The sensation was so intoxicating. And so very cruel. All her life, she’d been waiting to feel this kind of passion—­only to find it with the one man she could never, ever hold.

Discussing how to manage a troubled sister, sitting up all night with a dyspeptic dog, discussing secret pain over late-­night cake and beer . . . These were the experiences that proved two ­people could make a life together.

Now it didn’t even matter what they felt for each other. Rafe loved Piers. He wanted the chance to be a good brother, and Clio didn’t want to take that away. So whatever this was they shared, the two of them—­

Unless she meant to destroy his last chance at family, it could never be more.

“Can’t we just pretend to be other ­people?” she whispered. “For a few hours, at least?”

“I don’t want that. You don’t, either.”

Clio nodded. He was right, she didn’t want to pretend they were other ­people. She wanted to be no one but herself, and she wanted to be with him.

She wanted Rafe.

Not because he was dangerous or untamed or wrong but because this felt so right.

“You won’t be ruined,” a familiar voice announced.

Oh, God.

Rafe released her and stepped back. Clio clutched a pillow tight across her chest. But no matter how many feet—­or pillows—­separated them, they were alone and half-­dressed in the middle of the night. No one could fail to see the truth.

No one, that was, except the person who wandered into the room.

In rambled Phoebe, with her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders and her nose buried in an old copy of The Times.

“Phoebe.” Clio breathed the name as a sigh of relief. “What a surprise. Lord Rafe and I were just . . .”

“It’s the hop yield,” her sister interrupted, uninterested in explanations.

“W-­what?”

Crops. Her sister was wandering the castle in the dead of night, reading The Times and puzzling over hop yields.

Yes, that sounded like Phoebe.

Her sister lowered the newspaper. “Lord Rafe was right. Hops are a fragile crop and a risky investment. But I’ve found the way you can protect yourself from ruin.” She pointed at an article. “Each year, speculators wager hundreds and thousands on the final hop yield. It’s in all the papers.”

Clio searched her memory. If something appeared in the papers, she would know about it. “Yes, I remember reading the forecasts. I didn’t realize wagering was so widespread.”

“Damn right it is.” Rafe took the paper. “In some taverns, there’s more money bet on hops than on prizefighters. They make charts of every passing rain cloud.”

Clio approached to have a look at the paper herself. “But we can’t foretell the weather. How would I know what to predict?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “You’re going to bet against yourself.”

“Bet against myself? But why would I . . . ?” As she ran through the outcomes in her mind, Clio was beginning to understand. “So if the farming goes well, we make money on the crop, but if it’s a lean year . . .”