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She threw punch after punch, pushing out all the anger and frustration of the last eight years. Until her arms were custard.
"Now"--he threw the pillows aside--"I'm Piers. I'm back from Vienna. Ready to marry you. Give me your worst."
"My worst? I thought you wanted me to give your brother a chance."
"It's the same thing. Give him a chance, but give him hell. If he can't win you over, he doesn't deserve you."
"Er . . . " She was out of breath from all the boxing. "Oh, goodness. Piers, I--"
"No, no. Your posture's gone all wrong." He corrected her with his hands, laying one palm between her shoulder blades and the other on her belly. "Remember, you can do this. You're not seventeen. You're a woman. A strong one."
He released her and took two steps back, pretending to be Piers again. "Now, what is it you have to say?"
"I . . ."
"Eye contact. Look up."
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I am glad to see you home safe and well, but I don't think we should marry."
"Oh, jolly good." He slung himself into the nearest chair and propped up his feet.
Clio shook herself and laughed. "What are you doing?"
"What you've been claiming Piers will do." He folded his hands beneath his head. "You promised me he'd be nothing but relieved. Overjoyed, even."
She sighed.
"See? When you're honest with yourself, even you know that's not going to be the case." He stood up again. "So he's not going to say 'jolly good.' He's going to say something like . . ." He pitched his voice into an aristocratic baritone. "Of course we're going to marry. It was decided when we were children. We've been engaged for years."
"Yes. But I think it might for the best if . . ."
"No, no." Rafe broke out of his Piers role. "Don't use words like 'think' or 'might.' You've decided."
"I've decided. I've decided to break the engagement."
He narrowed his eyes to a severe stare, in a frighteningly accurate impression of his brother. "You agreed to marry me."
"I was seventeen then. Little more than a child. I didn't understand that I have choices. And now that I do . . . I choose differently."
"Why?"
"Because I don't love you, and you don't love me."
"A deeper affection will come with time," he said. "And no matter how far I've traveled, you were never far from my thoughts. I do care about you."
She swallowed hard. "And I appreciate that. I truly do. But it doesn't change my mind."
"Is there someone else?"
The question caught her unawares. Although she supposed it shouldn't have. It made sense that Piers would ask it. But she didn't know what Rafe would wish her to say.
"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 . . ."
"Then you collect on the wager," Phoebe finished. "The earnings are limited, but so are the losses. There's no way you can lose everything."
"Hedging your bets." Rafe scratched his jaw. "That's just mad enough to be genius."
Phoebe shrugged. "I've been called both."
"Well." Clio took her by the arm. "As your oldest sister, I am calling you to bed. We have an important day tomorrow. It's your first proper ball."
Her sister's face was grim. "Oh, yes. The miserable ordeal."
"It won't be so bad. These things can't be avoided forever. Not if you're to have your come-out next season."
"No one's going to court me. Why must I have a come-out at all?"
Clio caught a lock of her sister's hair. "You'll be fine. I'll be there for you. I do know how it is."
"You don't know how it is for me." Phoebe's dark head turned, and the lock of hair slipped from Clio's fingers. "Lord Rafe, you are coming with us tomorrow, aren't you?"
Rafe's eyes were dark as they met Clio's.
Please, she silently begged him. Please come.
His presence would soothe Phoebe, and as for Clio . . .
This could be her last chance. Their last chance. Once she'd broken her engagement to Piers, she wouldn't have an excuse to invite Rafe to these things. What it could hurt, for the two of them to have one evening to remember?
"You still owe me a dance," she reminded him. "I think it's time to pay the debt."
"It's not a good idea. There's a reason I left your debut ball. I'm out of my element at those things. Restless. And when I grow restless . . . that's when the devil in me rises. People get hurt."
"I rather like the devil in you," she said. "I'll be hurt if you stay away."
In a move that was as awkwardly sweet as it was uncharacteristic, Phoebe reached out and clutched Rafe's forearm. "Please. Do say yes."
He sighed. "I'll sleep on it."
Chapter Nineteen
Rafe didn't sleep at all that night.
And when dawn arrived, he left.
For an hour, maybe two, he kept the horse at a walk. He didn't want to push his mount too hard, and in his current mood, that was all too likely. Step after step, he put distance between himself and Twill Castle.
And Clio.
He knew she'd be disappointed, but he had to go. He didn't trust himself. If he spent one more moment in her presence, with those fair, soft hands reaching out to him--he'd haul her close, ruining her and both their families.
No, this was the perfect time to leave. After he'd done all he could, and before he cocked anything up. He'd made certain his brother would have a chance to win her back, and to be honest, that was probably more than Piers deserved.
After a while, the stretch of road started to look familiar. He wasn't but four or five miles from Queensridge.
And in Queensridge, he could find a fight.
God, that was just what he needed. He'd gone too long without the taste of blood in his mouth and the frenzied roar of a crowd in his ears. He was forgetting who he was.
He could have walked into any hamlet and picked a scuffle with the local loudmouthed blackguard. Every village pub had one. But he wasn't a bully, and he didn't fight amateurs. He needed a proper bout with a skilled opponent.
The Crooked Rook was just the place.
In centuries past, the inn had been a favored haunt of smugglers and highwaymen. Nowadays it mostly catered to a prizefighting crowd. Since prizefights were illegal, they had to be staged well outside Town and could only be publicized on short notice. The broadsheet went out a day in advance, and from there it was a mad race for spectators to reach the designated site.
The Crooked Rook was ideal: close enough to London, not too far from the main road. Only a few hours' journey for most. It had a wide, empty field in the back with plenty of room for a proper ring and spectators. And Salem Jones, the current proprietor, stayed on friendly bribing terms with the local magistrates.
To Rafe, and many others, it had become a surrogate home. If he had entered the place last year--back when he was champion--he would have been met with a rousing cheer from every corner.
Today, when he strode through the doorway just about noontime, his reception was more tepid. Oh, a good many nodded or called in his direction. But the general mood in the place was uncertain. No one quite knew what to make of a vanquished champion.
He cracked his neck. That would change by the time he left this place. It felt like a good day to start a comeback. And a quick glance toward the bar was all he needed to find his first opponent.
Prizefighters fought for different reasons. Some liked the sport. Some liked the money. Some just liked to make men bleed.
Finn O'Malley belonged in the latter category. He'd been champion some dozen years ago, but for the past decade O'Malley had been holding down the leftmost barstool at the Crooked Rook. He only roused himself from that perch for one of two reasons: to go out for a piss or to throw a punch. He'd fight anyone, loser buys the next round.
The man hadn't paid for a pint in years.
Rafe made a path straight for him.
The aging Irishman peered up at him, his eyes dark, wary slits. "Is that Brandon? What do you want?"
"I want a fight. One washed-up champion against another."
O'Malley sneered. "I only fight idjits for pints. I don't fight champions unless there's a purse."
"That can be arranged." Rafe drew his own money from his pocket. He shook a few coins loose and kept them, then dropped the remaining weight on the counter. It landed with a resounding thunk. "Hold it for us," he told the barkeep.
A new fire kindled behind O'Malley's eyes. It was a look that told him this wouldn't be easy.
Good. Rafe didn't want it to be easy.
"In the courtyard." O'Malley placed both hands on the counter and levered his weight off the stool. "Give us a minute. After I take m'self out for a piss."
Rafe nodded.
As he stood gathering his thoughts, a tankard of porter appeared on the bar before him.
"From the lady." The barkeep tilted his head toward a hazy corner of the tavern.
Lady? Hah. Only one kind of "lady" frequented this establishment.
Rafe had a glance.
Slender. Dark-haired. Fetching.
Available.
He could see exactly how it would go. First he'd win this fight, then he'd go to her upstairs. He'd start to wash the sweat and blood from his face, but she'd tell him not to bother. When he touched her, she'd shiver--on purpose, because she liked the idea of being scared. His brutishness would excite her.
And from there, it would be just like all his other encounters. Quick and rough and, in the end, unsatisfying.
He lifted his porter, attempting to drown the twinge of guilt. Perhaps that kind of encounter was what he needed. It was time he stopped slavering over a woman--an innocent, betrothed, gently bred virgin--he couldn't have.
What did he want with yards of ivory lace and a four-post bed with two dozen pillows? There could be no wedding nights or honeymoons or happily-ever-afters in a bloody storybook castle.
Not for a man like him.
"Rafe Brandon, you dodgy bastard." Salem Jones emerged from the inn's back room. In his arms, he carried a small trunk, which he set down on a nearby table.
Rafe offered his hand in thanks, and Jones used it to draw him into a hug.
"You stayed away too long," he said, patting Rafe on the back.
Jones was a West Indian freedman, born in Jamaica and come to England with a group of abolitionists some twenty years ago. As an eyewitness to slavery with stirring testimony, he'd made his Quaker sponsors pleased indeed.
As a pacifist, however, he'd been a profound disappointment.
Like most prizefighters, Jones had a few good years. Unlike most, he'd parlayed that success into something more lasting--the Crooked Rook.
At those odd hours of the night when he contemplated his life beyond prizefighting, Rafe had thought about offering to buy a stake in the place. Despite what he'd told Clio, he did know his years in fighting were numbered, and he wanted to make something of his future. But it had to be on his own terms. He didn't belong in any sort of office. And he wanted to be more than a tavern curiosity, fighting for pints or slamming tankards into plaster walls.
"I reckon you're here for this." Jones patted the trunk. "The rest are in back. Let the barkeep know where you want them."
Rafe had almost forgotten about the things, to be honest. He'd asked Jones to hold these trunks for him when he moved out of his rooms at the Harrington. He didn't want clutter in the warehouse while he was training.
He opened the trunk, sifting
through a stack of linen shirts and wool trousers. He hoped he'd find something more comfortable for a sparring match--but the garments in this trunk were too fine. When he reached the bottom, his hand closed on a small, plain wooden box.
He knew what it contained before he even lifted it into view.
It was the box with Clio's letters.
He laughed to himself. Just when he'd made up his mind to forget her. She'd followed him, even here.
She'd followed him everywhere, hadn't she? No matter how many times he changed his address. Over the years she'd kept sending him these missives--one or two a month, at least. Rafe had stashed them away in this box. He didn't pore over them, but he couldn't bring himself to discard them, either. They just sort of stuck to him, the way sweet things tended to do.
"Well?" O'Malley came back in from his piss. "Are we on?"
"In a bit."
Rafe dropped himself in a chair, ordered another pint of porter, sent a bottle of wine to the "lady" who'd be spending the night alone . . . and then did something he hadn't done willingly in years.
He settled in to read.
Most of the notes were breezy, dashed-off invitations, mixed in with the occasional bit of family news. All of it out of date, and none of it especially momentous.
We're having a dinner party Thursday next. If you have no other plans that night, you'd be most welcome.
Warmest birthday greetings from all of us here at Whitmore House.
I've had a new letter from Piers, and I've taken the liberty of copying the parts that might interest you. We'll be spending August at my uncle's estate in Hertfordshire. If you find yourself passing through, do pay a call.
Nevertheless, Rafe went through letter after letter, note after note, reading every last word she'd penned from salutation to close. By the time he lifted his head and rubbed his bleary eyes, the sky was growing dark.
The notes were so brief on their own, so inconsequential. But when taken together, their weight was crushing.
When he'd walked away from Brandon House, his father had closed the door. The rest of his family and high-class acquaintances had shut their doors, too.
Everyone but Clio.
She'd reached out to him, again and again. Never letting him drift too far away. Ready to welcome him, whenever he might decide to appear.
She couldn't know what that had meant to him.
Probably because he'd never made the effort to tell her.
