Say Yes to the Marquess(83)

He could be back in that Southwark warehouse by now, carrying on with his life.

Or he could be thrown from his horse, lying injured in a ditch and using his last bits of strength to write her name in his own blood.

She really shouldn’t hope for the second scenario, but a horrible, selfish part of her preferred it to the first. He wasn’t here, and she couldn’t help but feel hurt. It dredged up all those all subtle insults.

You’re a good girl, Clio. But that’s not good enough.

They were joined by Sir Teddy, who carried two cups of punch, and Daphne, who brought them a delicate scowl. “Phoebe, I can’t believe you brought that string.”

“I don’t go anywhere without string.”

“Well, you can’t have a ratty bit of twine in a ballroom.” She plucked the string from Phoebe’s hand and cast it on the floor, where it was immediately trampled. “Tonight, we want ­people talking about Clio’s wedding, not your peculiarities.”

“I have more,” Phoebe said.

“Peculiarities? Oh, yes. You have no end of those.”

“String.” She reached into her reticule and brought out another length of twine.

“Give that here.” Daphne grabbed for the twine.

This time, Phoebe held tight. “No.”

“Leave her be,” Clio said. She was not in the mood to tolerate Daphne’s mothering.

For that’s what all this was. Mothering, as they’d learned it in the Whitmore house. Daphne thought she was being caring and protective, in her own strange, misguided way. But she was wrong.

Teddy clucked his tongue. “You’re making a scene, kitten.”

“I don’t care,” Phoebe said loudly. “It’s mine. You can’t have it.”

­People turned. Stared. Around them, conversations withered and died.

This entire evening was a mistake, and it was all Clio’s fault. She should have protected her sister. Phoebe wasn’t ready for this. Perhaps she never would be.

“Leave her be,” Clio repeated.

“It’s for her own good, Clio. She has to break the habit.”

“For heaven’s sake, why? Let her keep her string, and her peculiarities, too. Let her keep herself.” She tilted her head toward the crowded, glittering ballroom. “We were brought up to care too much about what others think of us. It changed me. It changed you, too, Daphne. And I’m sad to say, neither of us changed for the better. I refuse to let Phoebe meet the same fate. She’s remarkable.”

“ ‘Remarkable’ is just the word. Everyone will be remarking.”

She turned to Phoebe, tucking the string in her sister’s hand. “I’m going to make a promise. To you, and to myself. I’m your sister and now your guardian, and I love you. I will never make you feel you must be someone else, just to please society.”

“Don’t be naïve, Clio,” Daphne said. “You can’t brush aside society. You’re going to be the wife of a diplomat, and a marchioness.”

“No, I won’t be. I’m not marrying Piers.”

“Oh, dumpling,” Teddy said, giving her a nudge in the side. “Don’t give up now. I hope you’re not listening to what they’re saying in the card room.”

“Why? What are they saying in the card room?”

Her brother-­in-­law looked sheepish. “They’re wagering, of course. On whether the wedding will take place. Lord Pennington’s giving odds of four to one against it.”

Ah. That was probably the true reason they’d been invited here tonight. To provide a bit of idle speculation and amusement. A joke.

In that moment, Clio realized something wonderful.

She just didn’t care.

Perhaps they’d worn her down. Or perhaps five-­and-­twenty was a magical age where a woman came into her own. For whatever reason, she truly, genuinely did not care one whit.

And then, as though announcing a prize she’d been awarded, the majordomo cleared his throat. “Lord Rafe Brandon.”

No one was worried about string now. Not even Phoebe.

Clio knew the man could make a dark, dramatic entrance on horseback. But turn him out in a fitted tailcoat, snowy cravat, and polished boots . . . ?

Good heavens above.

The strong cut of his jaw was pure Brandon, as was the easy air of command. But he brought with him that essential Rafeness, too. The aura of rebellion and danger that made the air prickle and set her heart racing.

Everything about his looks declared he was born for just this setting.

Everything about his expression told Clio he hated it.

But he was here anyway.

For her.

He crossed to their corner and bowed to each of them in turn, saving Clio for last. “Miss Whitmore.”