Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(25)
Author: Tessa Dare

Her face blank, Phoebe turned from Clio to Daphne and back again. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Clio assured her. “You are frighteningly brilliant and adorably well-intentioned, and I hope you will never change in either respect.”

Each of her sisters could be absurd at times, and irritating at others. But Clio was protective of even their foibles and faults. Perhaps Daphne and Phoebe weren’t always perfect sisters. But they were her sisters, and that was much better.

“I don’t see what’s frightening or adorable about it.” Her youngest sister sat a bit taller and sifted through the papers in hand. “But I should hate for all this work to be for nothing. I’ve made a thorough survey of the mechanics and prepared some diagrams. Such as I could define them, I created a taxonomy of terms such as ‘lust,’ ‘desire,’ ‘arousal,’ ‘climax.’ For the emotions and sensations attached, we shall have to rely on Daphne’s reports.”

Clio’s brother-in-law had been chewing the same bite of toast for several moments now. And with Phoebe’s last comment, he choked on it.

“Oh.” Phoebe looked at him. “I didn’t mean to exclude you, Teddy. Did you wish to contribute something helpful from the male point of view?”

A red-faced Teddy promptly pushed back from his place and stood, abandoning a full plate of food. “I have a pressing letter to write. Upstairs.” He swallowed. “Just remembered it. If you’ll excuse me.”

After a curt bow, the poor man was gone from the room so quickly, Clio could have sworn she heard a whooshing sound.

“That’s for the best,” Phoebe said. “Better if it’s only females.”

Daphne, who had buried her face in both hands for much of the conversation thus far, finally lifted her head. “We’re not going to have this conversation, kitten. Clio’s husband will be the best person to instruct her on the . . . er . . .”

“Mechanics?” Clio suggested.

“Yes. And as for the sensations . . . There’s really no use in describing them. What feels nice to one person might leave another cold. It’s best if she makes the discoveries herself. With the assistance of her husband, of course.”

In truth, Clio had made a few discoveries without the assistance of any husband. She was twenty-five years old, and she had been in the possession of a mature body for some eight or nine of those years. She understood her body’s responses to touch, and . . .

“Good morning.” The deep voice rang through the breakfast room.

. . . and thanks to the man filling the doorway, she was now well acquainted with the meaning of desire.

“Why, Lord Rafe,” Clio said. Because it seemed something must be said, and he’d left her at a loss. “You’ve returned.”

“I’ve returned.”

“Yes. You are. I mean, you have.” Stupid, stupid. As Clio rose from the table, she glared at Phoebe, sending a silent big-sister message.

Stash those papers away. Now.

Rafe must have noticed the three of them looking guiltily from one to the other. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Clio said, much too hastily. “No, you didn’t interrupt anything important. We were just discussing . . .” She felt her face go pink. “ . . . draperies.”

At the other end of the table, Daphne burst into giggles.

“Well, I’m glad I’m not interrupting anything important. Because I need a word with you, Miss Whitmore. If you’ll come with me.”

Bewildered, Clio followed him into the corridor.

He was so big, he nearly took up the entire passageway, and sheer virility filled any leftover space.

Her heartbeat quickened. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“I’ve something to show you,” he said.

“What is it?”

“You don’t want to ruin the surprise.” A boyish grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

Her body’s reaction was immediate and intensely feminine. Had someone attached a thread to one corner of his mouth, then secured the other end to her nipple, the effect of that smile could not have been more direct.

“Shouldn’t we wait for my sisters and Mr. Montague?” she asked.

His voice didn’t drop, or sink. It plummeted down a mine shaft of manliness. “No.”

Her giddy heart skipped a beat. Then two.

Oh, this grew worse and worse.

“Trust me. You’re going to like this.”

He tucked her arm through his and led her down the corridor. Clio sensed she would only embarrass herself by resisting, so she didn’t.

And truly, how many times in her life would she have the chance to be on the arm of a man with . . . well, a man with these arms? Her fingers lay on his wrist, making no more dent than fallen leaves made on a rock. She could have believed him to be carved from stone if his heat weren’t palpable through the layers of linen and wool.

Her senses exploded with memories of that kiss in the tower.

Perhaps they’d agreed to set it aside and never speak of it.

But that didn’t mean Clio had stopped thinking of it. Dreaming of it. Wishing, against all logic or sense, that it could happen again. It was like this wanting had been inside her all along, just years of it building and growing . . . and now she felt the force of it hitting her all at once.

This was lust, and she understood the power of it now. Every part of her body thrummed with desire.

She knew nothing more could come of it, and yet somehow that knowledge did little to quell her imaginings. Quite the reverse.

“I can’t imagine what your great secret could be. We’ve already decided on the venue, met with the vicar, and planned the breakfast for this imaginary wedding that’s never going to take place. We’ve discussed bunting, bagpipes, peacocks in the garden . . .”

“Precisely. We’ve been wasting time on inanity. I decided to take matters into my own hands. This morning, we’re going to have this done. The two of us. Alone.”

“Alone?”

Oh, Lord.

He threw open the doors to the music room. Clio was relieved to see at a glance that it was full of people. They weren’t too terribly alone.

“Pianoforte,” he announced, indicating the grand instrument lodged in one corner of the room. The pianist seated at it poured out a stream of flawless, sparkling Handel.

“Harp,” he said, pivoting them both.

In the center of the room, a serene-looking woman set her fingers to the harp strings, skipping up and down them in an intricate melody and finishing with a majestic glissande.