Say Yes to the Marquess(94)

“That was . . .” He released his breath, then seemed to give up on the sentence entirely.

“It was, rather.” She looked up at him. “Let’s go home.”





Chapter Twenty-three


Rafe hired a postchaise to convey Clio home. He rode out on his gelding. He might have shared the coach with her, but he had his reasons for riding alone. For one, he knew she had to be sore from their night of passion. Two hours with her in a small, dark space? He wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her.

Second, he needed the time to think.

There was much to be done. Once he had Clio settled in at the castle, he needed to set things in motion with the solicitors. He would ride to Dover and wait for Piers. It wasn’t going to be a seaside holiday, greeting his brother with the news that his bride was no longer his bride. But Rafe didn’t want the news to come from anyone else.

In the meantime, there were other hurdles to clear. Such as his reckoning with Sir Teddy Cambourne.

Upon their arrival at Twill Castle, however, it seemed his reckoning would be delayed.

“How surprising,” Clio said, after conferring with Anna and changing into a simpler frock. “We’ve beaten them home. They must have stayed very late at the ball. Or very early.”

“Perhaps they didn’t want to travel in the rain.”

“So long as they’re safe and well, that’s a lucky stroke.” They entered the castle’s entrance hall, and she spoke to him in low tones. “As far as everyone at the ball knows, you brought me home to the castle last night. And as far as everyone at the castle knows, we stayed at Pennington Hall. We might not need to explain ourselves to anyone. Not until Piers comes home.”

“I’m not waiting for Piers to come home.” Rafe explained his intention to go to Dover.

“To Dover?” she asked. “But I’m the one who’s going to speak with him. We practiced the other night.”

“Things have changed. My signature is on those papers, and he deserves an explanation from me.”

“But I spent the whole ride home planning out my speech. And I had the best idea.”

She led him down a side corridor and into a room that seemed to be her office. The shelves were lined with household ledgers and books. On the wall were pinned a survey of all the surrounding lands and various architectural sketches.

She said, “Sit in that armchair, if you will. Behind the desk. Be Piers again.”

Bemused, he did as she asked. “I’m sitting in the armchair. What now?”

“I have the rough sketches for the oast and the brewhouse, of course.” She reached for a ledger. “I’ve done the tabulations of what it will cost to convert the local fields to hops. But before we get to those specifics, there’s this.”

If her intent was to make him understand, she did the worst possible thing. She placed two books on the desk blotter, side by side. One bound in blue; the other in red.

He peered at the titles. His sense of foreboding didn’t improve. “Cookery books?”

“Humor me for a moment. You’ll see.” She opened the first—­a faded blue volume—­to the listing of contents. “This is my mother’s cookery book, purchased when she was first married.” Then she opened the second one to the same page. “This is the new edition I received on my eighteenth birthday. If you scan the two side by side, they are much the same—­but not identical. Can you find the difference?”

At a glance? Hell, no. And Rafe did not have the patience to go through both lists to find it, either.

“Curry.” She jabbed her finger in the center of the page. “And over here, arrack punch. See?”

He drummed his fingers, expecting that there must be some explanation forthcoming.

“There wasn’t a single Indian dish in my mother’s cookery book. Today, you wouldn’t find a collection of recipes without them.”

He looked blankly at her.

“Hold that thought. There’s more.” Next, she pulled out a length of fabric and thrust it at him. “Here.”

He turned it over in his hands. A piece of light, patterned cloth. “What am I to do with this?”

“Just look at it. Think about it.” She bounced on her toes a little bit.

Rafe looked at the fabric. He thought about it. He had no idea what sort of thoughts he was supposed to have about a few flowers and springs printed on cheap cotton.

“It’s chintz,” she said. “When we were children, it was all the rage to have imported Indian cotton. For curtains, shawls, quilts. Pillows. But now the factories use domestic cotton and print chintz here. None of it is imported anymore.”