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Clio kept that hand in hers as they walked down a footpath between two fields--barley on one side, clover on the other. "What do you think of the place?"
"I like it as well as I like any place."
"Would you like to live at Twill Castle?"
"Permanently?" Phoebe frowned. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I'd invite you to."
"Won't Lord Granville want to remove to Oakhaven?"
"Perhaps I can convince him to stay here. It's closer to London."
Her sister shook her head. "You'll be newly married. He wouldn't like having me underfoot."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because Teddy and Daphne are newly married, and they don't want me underfoot. Daphne told me so. Aside from dinners, I'm not allowed to trouble them unless the house is afire."
Clio gave Phoebe's hand a squeeze, but she knew her sister preferred to be reassured with facts.
"I would always want you underfoot," she said. "And as for Piers . . . well, he's a powerful man, but even he can't decide who stays in the castle. Twill Castle is mine."
"Only until you're married," Phoebe pointed out. "Then the castle becomes his."
"Perhaps I won't marry him."
Her sister halted in the middle of the path, and Clio stopped, too. The words had just erupted from her. She hadn't planned them. But now she would find out how her family--at least one member of it--would react.
Phoebe stared hard into the distance.
"Well?" Clio prompted. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a bee droned nearby.
Her sister lifted one hand to shade her brow. "Is that Lord Rafe? Over there, by the fence."
Clio shook herself, surprised by this sudden change in topic. Had Phoebe even heard her confession? There was no telling with her youngest sister. Sometimes she would make no note of something, then remark on it a day or a week later.
Clio peered hard in the same direction. "That's Mr. Kimball's farmland."
On the other side of the clover field, a group of laborers were stacking flat rocks to repair a drystone field border. Except one of the laborers was nearly twice the size of the rest. When he turned to the side, she could recognize his profile across the field--but by then, her pulse was already pounding.
Her body knew his.
"That is Lord Rafe," she said. "Yes."
He saw them and lifted one hand.
"What on earth is he doing?"
"Mending a fence, it would seem." Phoebe tugged her by the arm. "Come on, then. We ought to greet him since he waved to us."
"He didn't wave."
"Yes he did."
"He lifted a hand. He didn't move it to and fro. That's not waving."
Nonetheless, they were halfway to the stone border and committed now. As they approached, Rafe slipped his linen-clad arms back into his coat sleeves and ran both hands through his hair.
He looked instantly marvelous.
"I should have worn a different frock," Clio muttered.
"Why?" Phoebe asked.
"No reason."
And there truly was no reason. It didn't matter how she looked. Whatever it was between them . . . It wouldn't come to anything.
It couldn't come to anything.
And on some level, enjoying the attraction had to be wrong. Until he signed those papers, she was still--on paper, if not in her mind or heart--engaged to Piers. But she'd been waiting so long to feel even the slightest glimmer of this exhilaration. Who could tell when she would feel this way again?
Rafe bid the laborers good-bye and started walking toward them. They met in the center of the field, knee deep in clover.
"Are you helping mend a fence?" Phoebe asked.
"Been working on it a few hours." He looked over his shoulder. "Mostly finished, I think."
"That's good of you," Clio said. "I'm sure Mr. Kimball appreciates the help."
He gave a modest shrug. "I'm in training. I need the exertion."
Oh, and did it ever look well on him. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he wore that aura of exertion like a golden fleece, radiating health and power. She got rather lost in the dazzle for a moment or two.
"We're going to the village," Phoebe said. "I'm buying string."
"I have a letter to post," Clio added lamely.
"I'll join you, if I may."
So they walked into the village. Clio posted her letter. Phoebe purchased her string. Rafe was hungry from his morning's work, and he suggested they take luncheon at the pub.
It was a simple, unfussy establishment. A dozen or so tables, a small bar. The day's meal choices--all two of them--were chalked on a slate. The pub was crowded with customers, and as they entered, everyone in the place turned to gawk.
Clio nodded and smiled, noticing a few familiar faces. She'd made her best efforts to visit the homes of her tenants and become acquainted with the local merchants.
But it wasn't her appearance that had the caught their fascination--it was Rafe's. His reputation sailed ahead of them, cutting through the room and leaving quite a wake.
As they moved through the pub, she could hear the whispers.
"That's Rafe Brandon, isn't it?"
"The Devil's Own. I'd heard he was here on holiday."
"I saw him fight once, you know. At Brighton. He did an exhibition for the regiment just before we shipped to the Peninsula."
If Rafe heard the gossip, he didn't acknowledge it. He guided Clio and Phoebe to the last free table in the pub, one tucked in a corner behind a group of men playing cards. When the tavern girl came, he ordered shepherd's pie for the ladies, and a ploughman's luncheon of cheese, sliced ham, and buttered bread for himself.
While they waited for their meal, Phoebe pulled out a length of string, cut it off with her teeth, knotted the ends, and began to weave string figures.
"I've been working on something new, but I can't get it right." She shook her head, frustrated. Then she slipped the string loose and began over again. "Perhaps this through that loop . . . There. Lord Rafe, do you see that bit of string in the middle? Third one down. Pinch it tight, please."
He did as Phoebe asked, and she pulled her hands downward, widening her fingers to reveal a web of string in the shape of a castle. The bit of string Rafe held had become a soaring spire in the middle, and there were turrets on either side.
"Oh, well done." Clio applauded.
Rafe whistled in appreciation. "That's the best yet."
"It's a useless accomplishment," Phoebe said, letting the string drop. "I don't suppose I can stand up and make string figures when I have my debut."
"Speaking as someone who attended a few debuts," Rafe said, "I'd far rather watch a girl make string figures than endure another unfortunate performance at the pianoforte."
Phoebe looked to Clio. "What did you exhibit at your come-out ball?"
"I played the pianoforte." Clio gave a wry smile. "Most unfortunately. But Rafe was spared the pain of listening since he didn't attend."
He took a draught of ale.
Perhaps she shouldn't poke at him for it, but his absence had hurt. In childhood, Rafe had always teased her, but she'd thought they were friends, of a sort. And then he'd abandoned her, on the one night when she needed a friend the most.
"It's just a shame that we can't preserve the figures somehow," Clio said. "I wish I could hang them on the wall for everyone to see."
"Better this way," Rafe said. "On the wall, it would just be string. Phoebe is what makes it special."
His praise didn't seem to have much effect on Phoebe, but it caught Clio by surprise. A tender spot throbbed in her heart. Like a toothache, only somewhat lower down.
He had so many decent qualities. Why did he insist on maintaining such a reputation for devilry? She supposed it must do with his career. "The Dog-Coddling Demon" or "The Fierce Fence-Mender" probably wouldn't draw many spectators to a fight.
The serving girl brought their food from the kitchen. Phoebe ate quickly, the
n picked up her string and turned her chair to watch the men playing cards. Clio poked at her serving of pie.
Rafe moved closer to Clio's corner, where they could speak in relative privacy. "Mr. Kimball was telling me about your land agent and his meeting with the farmers. He shared your ideas for the hopfields and brewery."
"Oh?"
"He's not convinced. Neither am I."
"Why not? Hopfields might require an initial investment, but the farmers will have a ready market for their harvest."
"Assuming the crop doesn't fail." He pushed a wedge of cheese into his mouth.
Clio tried not to stare, but she was quietly fascinated by the unapologetic, masculine manner with which he ate. He didn't pay any special attention to etiquette. He didn't make a show of flouting it, either. He just . . . ate.
She found this appealing in a strange, visceral way.
Perhaps she envied him.
"We'll be keeping coopers, cartwrights, and woodmen furnished with custom," she said, taking a dainty bite of her own food. "The brewery itself will employ dozens. It's good for the entire parish. The plans are sound."
"Be that as it may," he said, scratching the light growth of whiskers he hadn't shaved. "Starting a brewery requires a tremendous investment. Hops are a delicate crop. You could lose your entire dowry, and the castle with it. Where will the farmers and coopers be then?"
"I know there's risk. But it's not as though I'm chasing some fickle fashion." She nodded at the crowded pub. "Englishmen aren't going to cease drinking beer anytime soon."
"But you're not an Englishman. You're an unmarried gentlewoman with no experience in agriculture or trade."
"Of course I lack experience. Where would I have acquired it? At finishing school?" She poked at a chunk of beef. "It's so unfair. Women are allowed to do one-tenth of what men may do, and yet we are scrutinized for it ten times as closely. If I'm going to be found wanting, at least this time it will be different. I would rather be judged for my failures at estate management than for my failures at the pianoforte. It might be a rough start, but I have the funds and determination to make it a success. I'll be the first to admit there's much I don't know. But I'm willing and able to learn."
When she looked up, Rafe wasn't at the table. She looked on as he walked to the bar and returned with three pewter tankards, brimming with beer.
"Brown ale," he said, pushing the first tankard toward her. "Bitter. Porter."
"All three? You're very thirsty from your work."
"They're for you," he said. "You said you were willing and able to learn. Let's see you prove it."
Ah, so he meant to give her a lesson. That was rather sweet. Ridiculous and unnecessary, but sweet.
Conscious of people watching them, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Thank you. But I know. I would not propose to open a brewery without first understanding brown ale, bitter, and porter."
"Then let's see if you can tell the difference." He slid the tankards around on the tabletop, jumbling them like walnut shells with a pea underneath. "Taste, and tell me which is which."
"I can tell you which is which by sight. This is the brown ale." She nodded at each in turn. "This is the porter, and the bitter. But I'm not going to drink any today."
Clio could hear Mama's ghost hitting the floor in a swoon at the mere suggestion. Well-bred ladies drank lemonade or barley water. Perhaps a touch of cordial or a glass of claret. Small beer, at home. They didn't drink ale. Much less porter. Not in public.
"So you want to produce beer, but you don't want to be seen drinking it. That makes no sense."
"It makes perfect sense in a nonsensical world."
He was a man; he had no idea. Ladies were encouraged to produce all manner of things--beauty, dinner, and children, most commonly. But those productions must appear to be effortless. Drawn from feminine mystery and ether. Woe to the lady who plucked her chin hairs in public, or welcomed callers with flour on her hands. Much less dared to admit desire.
"This isn't the place," she said.
"This is a public house. It is, by definition, the place for drinking." He nudged the brown ale toward her.
Her pride won out over propriety. With a cautious glance about the pub, Clio lifted and sipped from each heavy tankard in turn. "There. I've tasted them."
"And . . . ?" he prompted.
"And . . . they're fine."
"Wrong," he said. "Two are fine. One is swill. How can you go asking farmers to risk their harvests on the prospect of your brewery if you can't tell good ale from bad?"
She sighed. There seemed no getting around it. "The brown ale is quite good. Freshly brewed with local water. Sweet, nutty. There's a touch of honey in it, too. Someone had clover growing next to his barley. The porter is decent. The coffee flavors would be richer if they'd used dark malt, not just burnt sugar for coloring. But everyone's using the light malt these days. Now, the bitter . . ." She sipped it again and tilted her head. "I wouldn't call it swill. It had potential, but the yeast didn't dissolve properly. What might have been crisp sky and grassy fields is just . . . swamped in fog. Pity. A waste of good Kentish hops."
She raised her gaze to find him staring at her.
"Where did all that come from?" he asked. But his eyes phrased the question slightly differently. Where did you come from? they asked.
Oh, Rafe. I've been here all along.
Just waiting.
"A girl needs a hobby." She felt a bit cheeky. No doubt the work of the ale. Or perhaps the expression on his face.
He regarded her with those intense green eyes of his, and even though he was violently attractive and oh-so-close, Clio tried not to do something silly and girlish. Such as touch her hair. Or wet her lips. Or recall the feeling of his aroused manhood pressing against her tender flesh.
Naturally, she did all three.
Vexed with herself, she lowered her gaze. "Are you going to keep staring at me like that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I've a bet with myself. To see if I can make you turn ten shades of pink."
Well, in that moment he must have counted off yet another. Some muted crimson hue, most likely.
"A man needs a hobby, too." With a sudden, lethal flash of charm, he pushed back in his chair and stood. "I'll settle our bill."
Phoebe leaned toward the neighboring table, where the men were playing cards. "Don't wait on the king," she told the man nearest to her, peering over his shoulder at the cards in his hand.
"Phoebe," Clio whispered sharply. "Don't. It's rude to interrupt."
"But he needs to know." She tapped the man on the shoulder. "Don't wait on the king of diamonds. It's not in the deck."
"What?" The man looked over his shoulder at her.
"I've been watching for fourteen hands now. Every other card in the deck has appeared at least once. With an average of twenty-one cards revealed per hand, the chances of the king of diamonds remaining unplayed would be less than one in . . ." She paused. "One million, three hundred thousand."
The man brayed with laughter. "There's no numbers that big."
"What the devil's wrong with her?" a man across the table said. "She some kind of half-wit?"
"She's got more wits than you." The dealer turned over the remainder of the deck and riffled through it. "She's right. No king of diamonds. If it isn't in the deck, where is it?"
Phoebe shrugged. "I'd ask your quiet friend."
Across the table, a burly, ginger-haired man scowled. "Keep your nose out of men's business, girl."
Clio tried to distract her sister, to no avail. When Phoebe latched on to a fact, she could be like a dog with a bone.
"There." She nodded toward the man with ginger hair. "It's in his left sleeve. I see the edge of it."
Now the man rose from the table, looming over them all. "Are you calling me a cheat, you little wench? Because if you are, I won't stand for it."
He grabbed the tabletop's edge with both hands and flipped the entire t
able, cards and beers and all.
Clio gathered her sister into her arms. Phoebe stiffened at the contact, but it couldn't be helped. She would not let this man hurt her sister.
"Lying, unnatural witch," he snarled. "I tell you, I'll--"
Rafe stepped in, confronting the man chest to chest. His voice was a low, controlled threat. "You'll stop. That's what you'll do. Because if you touch or threaten either one of these ladies again, I swear on everything holy, I will kill you."
Chapter Eleven
Oh, yes. Rafe could kill him. He could demolish this vile, reeking piece of scum. Easily. With one hand.
Which meant he had to be very careful now.
"Do you know who these ladies are?" he said, both to inform the scum and to remind himself to keep some hold on civility. "They're both nieces of the Earl of Lynforth. Miss Whitmore is the local landowner and soon to be married to my brother, Lord Granville."
Rafe still held his tankard of beer in his right hand. With his left forearm, he nudged the man in the chest. Repeatedly.
"You don't touch them." He strode forward, backing the man toward the edge of the room. "You don't speak to them. You don't look at them." He pushed the man against the timber-and-plaster wall. "You don't breathe in their general vicinity, ever again. And in exchange, I let you leave this pub with the same number of teeth you brought in. Miss Whitmore's intended groom might be a diplomat, but he's not here right now. I am. And I don't do anything the nice way."
In his youth, he'd lived with anger at a constant simmer. Smaller insults than these had sent him boiling over with violence. Ten years ago, he would have punched first and thought later, leaving blood on the walls and no apologies.
He was older now. Wiser, he hoped. But when it came to scum like this? No less angry.
He was closer to losing control than he had been in years.
Easy, Rafe.
The card cheat chuckled. "Oh, I know who you are, Brandon. You had a good run in your day. But that's all over now, isn't it?"
"Not for long. I'll be reclaiming my title soon."
"That so? Let's see what you have, then." The man cracked his neck and shook out his fists. "I've been in a brawl or two myself. I'll take you on."
Rafe rolled his eyes. Damnation.
This ginger-haired jackass couldn't be a compliant, fearful, reeking piece of scum. No, the idiot was just drunk enough to make this difficult.
"I don't spar with amateurs, as a rule."
"So the gossip's true," the drunk taunted. "You're washed up. Running scared."
