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"No rich foods or sweetmeats for me. Not when I'm training." He set the slice aside and surveyed the others. "Which next?"
Oh, no. He wouldn't get out of it so easily. She picked up the lemon cake and gathered a bite with the fork, determined to avenge herself. "Taste the cake."
She moved closer, and he took a step in retreat. At last, she had him on the defensive.
She held out the fork and lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, doing her best imitation of Eve in the garden of Eden. Offering Adam not an apple, but a slice of sinful lemon cake.
"It's just one . . . tiny . . . little . . . bite of cake." She pursed her lips in a pout. "What are you afraid of, Rafe?"
His green eyes locked with hers.
She pushed the fork toward his mouth, trying to sneak the bite between his lips. He ducked his head. When she tried again, he spun away, laughing.
"Oh, you."
She lunged a third time, but his reflexes were too quick for her--as always. He not only dodged the forkful of cake, but he caught her wrist, forbidding her to strike again.
"You truly think you can land a blow?" he asked. "On me? Impossible. I was the heavyweight champion of England, sweetheart."
"And I was the terror of the schoolroom." Clio reached wildly toward the table with her left hand. She couldn't manage to grasp a fork, so she dug her bare fingers into the nearest cake--a chocolate one--and gathered a handful. "Eat the cake, drat you!"
He dodged her swipe, then released her and dashed to the other side of the table. They were both breathless and laughing now, facing off from opposite sides of the cake buffet. If she sprang to the right, he countered with a move to the left.
He grinned at her frustrated efforts to catch him. "It's like I told you. Concentrate. Anticipate. React."
"React to this." She flung her handful of cake at him.
Curse the man, he ducked. Then he turned to regard the splattered fireworks of icing on the wall and whistled low, amused. "Why, Miss Whitmore. I can't believe you did that."
"Watch me do it again." She dove for an almond torte. It glanced off his shoulder, and she gave a cheer. "Aha! First blood."
"That's it," he said, reaching into a strawberry-studded cake for some ammunition of his own. "This is happening. This is real now."
She dove to the side, but he was too quick for her. Icing splattered her hair and face, like sugary shrapnel.
Time to reload.
Clio's eye landed on a dense, bomb-shaped plum cake in the center of the table. Now that would make an excellent projectile. No coming apart in the air. There was only one problem.
Rafe had his eye on it, too.
His gaze lifted from the plum cake and locked with hers. He smiled. "It's mine."
Not if I get there first.
They lunged for it at the same time. Rafe was first to grab the plate, but Clio thrust her hand straight into the center of the cake. She flexed her fingers and pulled, as if to lift the cake itself from the plate.
Instead, she doubled over and cried out in pain.
The plate clattered to the floor.
Chapter Nine
When Clio doubled over, Rafe's heart kicked him in the ribs.
"Jesus." He slammed what remained of the plum cake to the floor and vaulted over the table. "Clio, what is it? Are you injured?"
She nodded, clutching her right hand. "It's . . . It's my hand. I think my finger . . . Oh, it hurts."
Goddamn it. Goddamn him.
What could have been in that cake? A fork? A knife?
"Did you cut yourself? Let me see it. Don't worry. I'm here. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything." He reached for her hand, drawing it toward him.
He had just enough to time to wipe away the crumbs and icing and confirm that her hand was unmarred by blood or bruises. It was delicate, lovely, perfect.
And soft. So unbearably soft.
"I don't see any--"
Wham.
She used her other hand to give him a faceful of cake.
He stood sputtering, temporarily blinded by marzipan. Her laughter rang dimly through the icing in his ears. And, as he wiped his face clean, he was caught off guard again--this time by a sense of admiration.
It took a sharp opponent to land a blow on him. Well done, her.
"You cunning little minx. Now you're in for it." He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet. His boot caught the hem of her frock, and she gave a shriek of laughter as together they tumbled to the ground.
They landed in a heap. One of his legs covered both of hers.
"I win," he said.
She began to object. His hand was still coated with strawberry cake. Using his thumb, he pushed a morsel of it into her mouth.
That was a mistake.
Her lips and tongue wrapped around his thumb, sending a jolt of arousal straight to his cock.
Worse yet, she moaned as his thumb slid free. The gentle vibration slid down his spine, making him wild.
She fed him the hunk of plum cake she still clutched, pushing it into his mouth with her delicate fingertips. He caught her wrist and sucked her fingers clean, one by one, groaning softly. The tastes of spice and chocolate and ripe berries mingled on his tongue.
"There," she breathed. "See? I win. You make cake sounds, too."
"Those aren't cake sounds."
They were Clio sounds.
It wasn't cakes he craved. It was this. This closeness. This softness. This sweetness that came not from spun sugar and candy floss, but from her.
Just her.
Every shred of his conscience shouted at him to remember his career. Think of his brother. For the love of God, get the hell off her.
But she was so lovely and fresh--and not only sweet, but the perfect amount of tart. Her chest quaked with laughter, and her breasts danced under his chest. Damn, he hadn't laughed like this with anyone in years. Perhaps he never had.
He didn't know how to pull away.
Women liked him. He'd never had difficulty finding female company. But his lovers wanted the scoundrel and prizefighter. A big, hotheaded brute to toss them around the bed and pump them until they screamed. As a younger man, he'd been happy--hell, ecstatic--to oblige. But over the years, he'd come to crave more in the bedchamber than a bit of sweaty exertion.
Things like tenderness. Understanding. Laughter.
Moments just like this.
"Rafe . . ."
He shushed her, swiping the mussed hair from her brow. "You have icing on your forehead."
"Oh, dear." She reached to dab her left temple. "Here?"
"No. Here." He licked the smear of vanilla from the right side of her brow.
She trembled, but she didn't shy from him.
"There's some here, too," he lied. He ran his tongue over her cheekbone. She was more delicious than any icing. More tempting than any cake.
"Is that all of it?"
"No." He touched his tongue to the corner of her lips.
And then they were kissing again, and her lips parted beneath his. Her arms went around his neck, and his legs tangled in her skirts. He rolled atop her lush body, shameless. Letting her abundant curves cradle all his hard, aching need. Sweeping his tongue between her lips. Again and again.
As if he kissed her deeply enough, he could claim her for his own.
She's not yours, a voice inside him said.
He ignored it. He kissed down her neck and he slid one arm beneath her, gathering her by the waist and drawing her body tight against his. Until he held her so close she could have been a part of him.
She's not.
She's not yours.
He lifted his head abruptly. They were both breathing hard.
"I--"
"Don't," she said. "Don't explain or make excuses. Please. If I have to hear again how this is just a bit of impersonal lust, or to settle a score from your adolescence . . . you'll crush me."
"I won't tell you that." He would be lying if he d
id. This was more dangerous than lust or envy.
Rafe rolled to the side, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't know what the hell to call this feeling in his chest. But labels didn't matter. He wasn't free to explore it.
"You're. Engaged. To. My. Brother." Maybe if he spoke the words aloud, and slowly enough, they might sink into his conscience.
"I don't have to be." She struggled to a sitting position. "I could be not-engaged with a stroke of the pen."
"It's not that simple." He sat up, too.
"It truly is." She reached to wipe a bit of cake from his face. "Emotionally, he and I have no attachment. It's just a matter of legalities. The moment you signed those dissolution papers, I'd be free. We'd be free."
"To do what? Something you'd immediately regret?" He flicked a morsel of cake from his trouser leg.
"Why would I regr . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. "Oh, God. Oh, no."
"What is it?"
"My engagement ring." She flashed her naked, sticky hand at him. "It's gone."
He swore.
"We have to find it. It's worth a fortune." She rose from the carpet, looking high and low in her search. "It must have come off when I was sticking my hand in one of the cakes. I think I remember having it after the chocolate. And the almond. That would mean it got stuck in the . . ."
"Plum cake. Which I threw to the floor when you cried out." He looked to the far corner. "Over there."
Together they dashed around the table.
"Oh, drat."
Well. The plum cake had been there, on the floor.
It would now appear that the entirety of it--and Clio's ring, as well--were currently inside Ellingworth's stomach.
At first, Clio struggled not to laugh.
The picture was so comical--the ugly old bulldog's flattened face snuffling over the empty platter.
Rafe, however, didn't seem to find it amusing.
"Ellingworth, no." As he ran to the dog, he let loose a string of curses, many of which Clio had never heard before and couldn't have dreamed existed. "How did he get in here?"
"I don't know. Perhaps he waddled in and fell asleep in the corner hours ago."
"No. No, no, no." He lay flat on the floor and pressed his ear to the dog's stomach. "It's gurgling."
"Isn't that normal?"
"I don't know." He sat up and speared his hands through his hair. "It could be. I've never listened to it before."
"The poor thing." She knelt on the bulldog's other side. "But he'll probably be fine."
"What should we do? Should we make him puke? Turn him over and give him a shake?"
She stroked the dog's ear. "I don't think so."
"He feels warm." Rafe pounded his fist against the carpet. Then he punched to his feet, stripped off his coat, and began waving it up and down to fan the bulldog.
Clio was starting to feel a little less touched at the protective care Rafe had displayed toward her. Whisking her away from the falling portcullis, catching her misstep in the tower--those acts had seemed dashing at the time, but it was nothing compared to this effort. And to her, the dog didn't even appear to be ill. If anything, he looked rather fat and content.
If he died now, he'd go happily.
"It's just a plum cake," she said.
"No. It's not just a plum cake. It's a plum cake and an enormous gold-and-ruby ring."
This was true. "At least it's a cabochon setting. No sharp edges. Give him a bit of cod liver oil, and it ought to go right through."
"It had better." Rafe only fanned harder. "Do you hear me, you deaf old thing? Damn you, dog. Don't you die on me now."
In response, Ellingworth belched.
Clio tried not to giggle.
"We need a veterinarian," Rafe said, throwing the coat aside. "A proper surgeon if you have one near. An apothecary, if not. Send for whoever is in the neighborhood."
"Of course."
Good Lord, she'd never seen him this way. She wasn't overly concerned about Ellingworth's health, but she was starting to worry for Rafe.
"Rafe, look at me."
And when he did, the fierceness in those bold green eyes nearly knocked her over.
"We're in this together," she said. "We'll do everything we can. We'll send to London for specialists, if need be. I promise you." She reached out and squeezed his big hand in both of hers. "This dog isn't going to die today."
Twelve hours, three veterinarians, two doctors, and one apothecary later, Clio sat on a chair outside the room dedicated as an infirmary, working a bit of embroidery by the light of a single candle.
The hour was late, and everyone else had gone to bed hours ago. But Rafe remained closed in the room with Ellingworth, and so Clio was still sitting here.
During the course of the day, she'd found a spare hour to bathe and change out of her cake-smeared clothing. At least the chaos of Ellingworth's accident had saved her from making explanations for that. All she'd needed to do was raise her hands, and say, "The dog," and everyone had seemed satisfied.
At last, the door opened. "You're still here?"
Clio crammed her needlework into the drawer of a nearby table and stood.
Rafe looked so solemn. Unlike Clio, he hadn't changed--other than removing his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, then rolling his sleeves to the elbow. His hair stood at wild angles.
She began to fear the worst.
"Well?" she prompted.
"They say he'll live."
"Oh." She released the breath she'd been holding. "That's good to hear. I'm so relieved. You must be, too."
"He seems to be sleeping soundly now. The veterinarian will stay with him, so I'm going up to bed." He turned his head in both directions, then glanced upward, too. "Which way is my bedchamber, again?"
She picked up the candle from the table. "I'll walk you there."
He hooked his coat on one finger and slung it over his shoulder. They ambled down the corridor, side by side.
"The good news is, they've given him a dose of some purgative. The ring should"--he cleared his throat--"appear within a few days."
Clio shuddered. "I'll never put that ring on my finger again."
"Yes, you will. I just told you, the veterinarian says it will only take a few days. That's good news. You'll have it back before Piers returns."
She turned and blinked at him. "Be that as it may, Rafe. I'll never put that ring on my finger again."
"We'll wash it."
"Not because of where it's been," she said. "Well, partly because of where it's been, but mostly because I'm not going to marry Piers."
He sighed. "This would never have happened if you'd just tasted the cakes."
"It would never have happened if you'd respected my wishes and signed the dissolution papers days ago." Clio took a moment to compose herself. "But let's not quarrel now. The important thing is, the dog is well."
"Yes."
They mounted a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, Rafe spoke to her again, more gently. As if he'd left his impatience and hard feelings at the bottom of the staircase.
"I should thank you for keeping watch with me. Again."
"Again?"
"I never told you what it meant. Never properly thanked you at all, and that's my fault. When the marquess died, you were a true help."
"I didn't do anything, really."
"You were there. You made the arrangements for the funeral and answered the calls. You brought that little basket of . . . biscuits or something."
"Muffins. They were muffins. Your father died, and I brought muffins." She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am a muffin. Warm and bland and nice enough, but nothing to get excited about."
"Nothing to get excited about. Right. That's you, Clio. Do me a favor, will you? Tell that to my--"
Her pulse stuttered. She could imagine too many endings to that sentence, some of them lewd and others heart-wrenching. "To your what?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
&n
bsp; Drat.
"I'm just glad Ellingworth will be well in the end," she said. "I didn't realize how much you cared for the poor old dear."
"I don't, really. It's just . . . he's not mine. He's Piers's dog. I can't let something go wrong on my watch. I've had no choice but to take responsibility for the marquessate in his absence. But when my brother comes home, I mean to hand over everything in the same condition I received it. Then I'm done."
Clio slowed to a halt in the center of the corridor. She pressed a hand to her heart. "Oh my Lord."
Rafe stopped, too. "What? What is it?"
"I'm the dog."
"What?"
"That's it." She turned to him. "I'm the dog. That's why you've gone to all this trouble. It's why you're so bent on keeping me engaged. In your mind, I'm like the dog. I belong to Piers, and you're not too attached to me--but you don't want something to go wrong on your watch. You need to hand me over in the condition you received me."
He opened his mouth to reply--then hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.
Clio didn't need any words. That moment's pause told her everything she needed to know.
She'd pegged it absolutely right.
She was the dog.
She stormed ahead, not caring if she left him alone in the dark. He was welcome to wander these corridors all night.
He caught up to her, whipping her around by the arm. "Clio, wait."
She clenched her free hand into a fist. How she despised those words. They were the sum of her life, those two words: Clio, wait.
"You're misunderstanding me," he said.
"I don't think I'm misunderstanding anything."
"You are not the dog."
"I might as well be. I'm a faithful, drooling little thing you want to keep alive, so Piers can come home and pat me on the head. Toss me a biscuit, perhaps."
She started to growl in frustration, but held herself back. Considering the circumstances.
"Clio, Clio. You are so . . . so much more."
"So much more than a dog. A high compliment. Thank you."
"Will you stop going on about the dog?" He covered his eyes with one hand. "It's late, and I'm not saying things right. But if you've somehow formed the impression that I don't see you as a beautiful, intelligent, remarkable woman, we need to clear that up immed--"
She hooted with laughter. "Please. Just stop. We both know your brother could have had dozens of ladies more elegant, more accomplished. And as for you . . . well, you've actually had them."
"My history is irrelevant. Yes, perhaps Piers could have married a lady more elegant or more accomplished. But he could never find one better. You don't know, Clio. People toss around the words 'loyal' and 'kindhearted' as though they're common qualities. But they aren't. They're so rare. A man could search the world and not find another you."
