“Charmed, I’m sure.”
In reality, she wasn’t entirely sure. Not about this Mr. Montague, and not about Rafe.
While Mr. Montague put the dog on a lead and walked him to the grassy edge of the drive, she went after some answers. “Dare I hope you’ve merely dropped by to sign the papers?”
“Absolutely not. It’s like we discussed. I’m here to plan the wedding.”
She froze. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
Don’t panic, she told herself. Not yet.
“I thought you were in training. No distractions.”
“I can train here in Kent. The country air is beneficial for the constitution. And you can keep the distractions to a minimum by cooperating with the wedding plans. Piers wants you to have everything you ever dreamed of on the grand day.”
“So I’m to believe this is Piers’s idea?”
He shrugged. “It might as well have been. Until he returns, I have the full weight of his fortune and title at my disposal.”
Now, she told herself. Panic now.
“Rafe, I can’t play your little game. Not this week. My sisters and brother-in-law just arrived.”
“Excellent. That’s three wedding guests we won’t need to invite.”
She rolled the papers in her hands. “You know very well there won’t be any wedding.”
He glanced at the castle. “And you’ve told your family this news?”
“No,” she was forced to admit. “Not yet.”
“Ah. So you’re not truly decided.”
“I am truly decided. And you are truly vexing. Rolling in like a storm cloud on your black horse, all dark and dramatic and unexpected. Demanding to plan weddings and bringing me lists.”
“I’m all kinds of trouble, and you know it. But I know you, too.”
Her breath caught. Then she reminded herself that what sounded like flirting was often just male presumption. “You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, Rafe Brandon.”
“I know this much. You won’t turn me away.”
Rafe watched her carefully.
It wasn’t any hardship, to watch her carefully. But he had extra reason today.
Clio might not have made her final decision on marriage, but it was clear she didn’t want another pair of houseguests right now.
Another trio of houseguests, if one counted Ellingworth.
He took the lead from Bruiser and crouched beside the dog. He was so old, he was completely deaf, but Clio didn’t know that.
“Not to worry, Ellingworth.” He scratched the dog behind the ear. “Miss Whitmore is a model of etiquette and generosity. She wouldn’t turn an old, defenseless dog out into the cold.” He slid a glance at Clio. “Now would she?”
“Hmmph. I thought champions are supposed to fight fair.”
“We’re not in a boxing ring. Not that I can see.” After a moment’s thought, he decided to take a chance. “Is that a new frock?”
“I . . .” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. “I don’t see that it matters.”
Oh, it mattered. He knew these things mattered.
Rafe might not know a damn thing about planning weddings, but he knew a thing or two—or twelve—about women.
This was all Clio needed. A bit of attention. Appreciation. She’d been left waiting for so many years, she was feeling unwanted. Well, that was bollocks. Just look at her. Any man who didn’t want this woman would be a damned fool.
Piers wasn’t a fool.
Unfortunately, neither was Rafe.
“The color suits you,” he said.
And it did. The green played well with the gold of her hair, and the silk fit her generous curves like a dream. The kind of dream he shouldn’t be having.
He rose to his feet, letting his gaze sweep her one last time, from toes to crown.
By the time their eyes met, the flush on her cheeks had deepened to a ripe-berry hue. He smiled a little. Clio Whitmore’s complexion had more shades of pink than a draper’s warehouse. Every time Rafe thought he’d seen them all, he managed to tease out one more.
Just imagine teasing her in bed.
No, you idiot. Don’t. Don’t imagine it.
But as usual, his thoughts were three paces ahead of his judgment. The image erupted in his mind’s eye, as unbidden as it was vivid. Clio, breathless. Naked. Under him. Stripped of all her good manners and inhibitions. Begging him to learn her every secret shade of pink.
Rafe blinked hard. Then he took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between “flying carriage” and “beer fountain.”
He looked nowhere but her eyes. “We’ll send in our things, then.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“You haven’t said no.”
And she wouldn’t. They both knew it. No matter how much she disliked Rafe, no matter how much she wanted him gone . . . Her conscience wouldn’t let her turn him out.
Her little sigh of surrender stirred him more than it ought. “I’ll have the maids prepare two more rooms.”
He nodded. “We’ll be in once I’ve put up my gelding.”
“We have grooms to do that,” she said. “I was fortunate that all my uncle’s housestaff stayed on.”
“I always put up my own horse.”
Rafe walked his gelding toward the carriage house for a good brushing down. Whenever he came in from a hard ride—or a hard run, a hard bout—he needed a task like this to calm him. All that energy didn’t just dissipate into the air.
And tonight, he needed a private word with a certain someone. A certain someone who’d just up and declared that his name was Montague.
“What the devil was all that about?” he asked, as soon as Clio was out of earshot. “Who’s this Montague person? We agreed you’d act as my valet.”
“Well, that was before I saw this place! Cor, look at it.”
“I’ve looked at it.”
The castle was impressive, Rafe had to admit. But he’d seen finer. He’d been raised in finer.
“I want a proper room in that thing,” Bruiser said, gesturing at the stone edifice. “No, I want my own tower. I certainly don’t want to be your valet. Stuck below stairs, eating my meals in the servants’ hall with the housemaids. Not that I can’t appreciate a fresh-faced housemaid on occasion. Or, for that matter, a well-turned footman.”
That was Bruiser. He’d tup anything. “How egalitarian of you, Mr. Bruno Aberforth Montague.”