Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(47)
Author: Tessa Dare

“Why not?” Clio asked.

“Nothing good could come of my attending. I don’t belong at those things anymore. I never did.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked. “Of course you belong.”

“Oh, indeed. Everyone wants a brawling prizefighter at their high-class party.”

“Maybe not, but they all want lords. No matter what else you’ve done in your life, you will always be the son of a marquess. Birth and lineage are everything to the ton.”

Yes, birth and lineage were everything to the ton. And that was precisely the reason Rafe despised them. He would rather be judged on his accomplishments.

“If you come,” she said, “I might even forgive you for missing my debut all those years ago.”

And then she gave him a smile.

A warm, flirtatious smile, curved like an archer’s bow. Its arrow struck home, hitting him square in the heart.

He tried his best to appear unskewered. “You’re generous to invite us. But we must decline.”

Bruiser tugged on his waistcoat. “Come along, old chap. Upon my word, I don’t see why we—”

Rafe threw him a glare. “We. Must. Decline.”

“Very well.” His trainer lifted his hands. “We must decline.”

Clio lowered her gaze and fidgeted with the invitation. “I see. Then if you’ll pardon me, I’ll go write the response.”

As she left the room, her lips thinned to a tight, unbending line.

With a curse, Rafe charged into the corridor, turning just in time to glimpse Clio ducking into the library.

He followed her inside. “We should talk. About earlier. About everything.”

“Must it be this moment? I need to write this reply, if you don’t mind. The messenger has been waiting for an hour.” She sat down at the desk.

“You must understand. I’m not welcome at these things.”

“Of course I understand.” She sighed, then let the pen clatter to the blotter. “Actually, I don’t understand at all. For eight years, I’ve reached out to you with one invitation after another. I don’t know how you can say no one wants you at these things. I want you at these things. I always have.”

“What were you hoping, Clio? That I’d come to the ball, dressed in a black tailcoat and tall, gleaming boots? Stand at the top of the stairs, be introduced to the room as Lord Rafe Brandon of Somerset? Search you out in the crowded room and make my way to you?” He chuckled. “Ask you for a dance?”

She didn’t laugh. Or say anything.

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stared at the blotter. After a prolonged pause, she dipped the quill and began to write.

Well, damn.

So that’s exactly what she’d been hoping would happen. And now he’d mocked her for daring to think it.

He hated to hurt her, but maybe it was for the best. That little scene she’d imagined was never going to occur. It couldn’t.

And she needed to understand that, in no uncertain terms.

“Clio, I’m sorry if you—”

“No, don’t. Don’t apologize. Why should anything between us change, just because you confessed to desiring me for years, then fondled my breast? Never mind that it was one of the most passionate, thrilling hours of my life. I suppose it’s just another Thursday to you.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Her head lifted, and her blue eyes burned into his. “You’re right. I do know it’s not true. And that makes this hurt all the more.”

Curse it. Rafe knew he was making a hash of this. “I just don’t belong in that world anymore. But you do, Clio. You should go and enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll be surrounded by gossip.” Her pen scratched across the page. She lowered her voice to a mocking whisper. “There she is, Miss Wait-More. Wonder if she’ll manage to bring him up to scratch this time. Care to place a wager on it?”

“It’s not going to be like that.”

“You’re right.” She paused in writing. Her demeanor softened. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not going to be like that. Because by this time tomorrow, I won’t be engaged any longer.”

Damn. Rafe didn’t like the sound of this.

She sealed the envelope with a bit of wax. “I won’t ask you to attend the ball. But you must sign those dissolution papers before I leave.”

“The week’s not over yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still tonight.”

“I can’t imagine what you could possibly do in one night that would change my mind.” She gave him a wry smile. “If you’ll excuse me, the messenger is waiting.”

She left the room, sealed reply in hand.

And Rafe started thinking of embroidery.

Dinner was miserable. At least, for half of the people at the table.

Clio was out of sorts and quiet. Rafe was out of sorts and quiet. Phoebe was out of sorts and quiet. Conveniently, however, the other half of their party seemed entirely oblivious to anyone’s distress.

Daphne prattled on about tomorrow night’s ball at the Penningtons’. The Esquire, as Clio had taken to calling him in her thoughts, filled any gaps by recounting his “Continental” escapades. And Teddy monopolized the fish course with a lengthy description of his newest pair of bespoke Hessians.

When the meal was over, they all adjourned to the drawing room.

“I’m finalizing the menu for the wedding breakfast,” Daphne said. “It’s almost finished. How many sauces should we have?”

“Can we speak of something else?” Clio asked, her voice breaking. “Please? I feel like such a neglectful hostess, making you work the whole week. And look at poor Teddy. He’s bored out of his mind by all this talk of menus. Why don’t we have a game?”

“What kind of game?”

“Any kind of game.” She’d agree to chase a greased pig through the corridors if it meant changing the topic from weddings. “We’ll play cards or backgammon or something.”

“Not cards,” Daphne said. “Not with Phoebe. She’s impossible to win against.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy playing with her,” Clio said, anxious for her sister’s feelings.

Phoebe turned a page of her book. “I don’t wish to play cards.”

Mr. Montague spoke up. “If I might make a suggestion . . . What say the ladies to a parlor game?”