He couldn't help but laugh. "Someone has to get us sinners to church."
"I can't even move." She took three stuttering steps in demonstration, waddling into the corridor like an arthritic duck. "The thump you heard was me falling over."
"Twice?"
"Yes, twice." She grimaced. "Thank you for rubbing salt in the wound."
"Try another gown, then."
"I did. I tried them all. They're all too small."
"But I thought Bruiser specially requested them based on your measurements."
"I didn't give him my measurements. And surely Anna would have . . ." Confusion drew little furrows in her brow. Then some sudden realization ironed them flat. "Daphne. Of course. This would be just the sort of trick she'd pull."
"Why would she pull any tricks? I thought she was all aflutter about planning the wedding."
"Oh, she is. This is just her way of reminding me that I . . ."
"That you what?"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
"It matters. I can tell it matters."
A hint of sadness had crept into her eyes. It made Rafe want to break things. Then arrange the pieces in a barricade around her.
"There you are." Daphne appeared in the corridor. "Oh, Clio. You do look lovely."
Clio spoke through clenched teeth. "I look ridiculous. You gave Mr. Montague the wrong measurements."
"No, I didn't. I gave him just the right measurements."
"But the gown doesn't fit her," Rafe said.
"It will." Daphne patted her older sister on the cheek. "You'll see. What with the bridal nerves and all the work to be done, this will be a perfect fit by your wedding day. And if that's not quite enough . . . ? I'm here to help. We'll bring back Mother's game."
Mother's game? What the devil was this about?
"I . . ." Clio's voice broke. "Excuse me, I . . . I need to go upstairs."
"But you've only tried one gown," Daphne said.
"It's more than enough for today." She turned and shuffled down the corridor, heading for the entrance hall.
"You're not peevish, are you?" Daphne called after her. "I meant to help, you know." She looked to Rafe, then shrugged and smiled. "She'll thank me later. You'll see. From time to time, we all need a little motivation."
Motivation.
Rafe was feeling motivated. To do just what, he didn't know. But he was highly motivated to do . . . something. Anything. His blood thundered through his veins.
And then, all the way from the entrance hall, Clio gave him a purpose.
Thunk.
"Curse this wretched gown."
Clio had suffered a great many mortifications in the past eight years. Smiling through the weeks following Daphne's elopement, knowing that everyone was whispering about whether it would ever be Clio's turn. Then there was the first time she'd seen herself called "Miss Wait-More" in the Prattler. That had been miserable, too--surpassed only by the day she'd seen the list of wagers from the betting book at White's. Dozens of England's most influential gentlemen, making her elusive wedding date a matter for their sport.
But this? This went beyond everything.
She'd never been more humiliated in her life. Embarrassed by her own sister, desperate to make her escape, hampered by this diabolical gown, and reduced to waddling down the corridor.
Until the hem tripped her, of course.
Then she took tumble number three.
Clio blinked away a scalding tear. Truly, could this be any worse?
"Don't get up. I'm here."
Rafe's voice.
Yes. It could be worse. The most attractive, compelling man of her acquaintance, and the only man to ever look at her with desire in his eyes, could be present to witness it all.
Now her humiliation was complete.
He knelt at her side. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
"Only my pride." She tried to regain her feet.
"So this is why you wouldn't eat the cake yesterday." He took her elbow, steadying her. "You can't be worried Piers will judge you on your measurements?"
"I'm a woman. Everyone judges us on our measurements."
And Clio's mother, God rest her, had never missed an opportunity to remind her of it. Her mother was the daughter of an earl, expected to make an excellent match; yet she'd condescended to marry a naval officer of common birth. If only she'd been a little less stout, she'd once told Clio in confidence . . . she thought she might have married a peer.
Mama was determined her daughters would not fall victim to the same mistake. Daphne and Phoebe were naturally svelte, but Clio's figure had always tended toward curves.
"My mother had this . . . Well, she called it a game. We started playing it just as soon as I'd been engaged to Piers. She would have my dinner sent up to the room on a tray. Each course on a separate plate. And then she would drill me on whatever we'd studied that afternoon. French grammar, Bavarian etiquette, the correct forms of address for Hanoverian royalty. She'd ask me question after question, and for each mistake I made, she took one dish from my tray, starting with dessert. Some nights, I made so many mistakes that I had no dinner at all. Only broth. Other nights, I had three or four courses. But I never managed to keep my dessert."
"That 'game' doesn't strike me as amusing."
"There was one dinner I particularly remember. On the tray was a slice of toffee-nut cake. My favorite. I remember staring at it so intently, I could taste the browned sugar and the buttery walnuts. I was so careful as she quizzed me. I answered every question perfectly. No mistakes. I was giddy with victory. At last. And then, while I was sitting there simmering with triumph, she took that slice of cake from my tray."
"Why would she do that, if you didn't make any mistakes?"
"Because I was the mistake," Clio said, not bothering to hide her emotions any longer. "I was wrong, just for being me. I was growing too heavy."
Rafe cursed. "Your mother was a fool. Your sister, too."
"My mother wanted the best for me. And I know Daphne means well. We're family."
"Just because they're family doesn't mean they won't hurt you. It means they know how to cut deep."
She didn't answer.
"What's more," he said, "they've lied to you. Because you're not heavy."
"You don't need to say that to preserve my feelings."
"I'm saying it because it's the truth."
"But I--"
He sighed gruffly. "You asked for this."
He braced one hand on her back, then slipped the other under her legs. And with one effortless motion, he swept Clio straight off her feet.
Into his arms.
His large, massive, all-the-words-for-big arms.
"What are you doing?"
"Proving a point." He bounced her in his arms, and her stomach took a brief flight. "You're not heavy. Not to me."
Oh. Oh, mercy.
He took her breath away, the rogue. And for long, dizzying moments, he refused to give it back.
Clio was certain she'd never beheld a more handsome man in her life. She'd always known Rafe to be attractive, virile, dangerous, desirable. But from this close vantage, in the light of day . . . Her gaze skipped from the strong angle of his jaw, to the proud cut of his cheekbone, to the vibrant green of his eyes, framed by lashes dark as ink.
He was beautiful. Utterly, masculinely beautiful. She didn't know how she'd never seen it before. She supposed he hadn't let her close enough to see.
"Very well," she managed. "Now that you've made your point, you can set me down."
"Not a chance." He adjusted her weight in his arms and began carrying her up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. "You'll never get up all these stairs in that gown."
"I'm not going to treat you like a beast of burden."
"I might be a beast," he said, pausing on the landing, "but you could never be a burden. Just tell me where to go."
She relented when they reached the top of the stairs. "That way." Then, as they reached a
bend in the corridor, "Turn here."
Rafe wheeled on his right boot, following her direction.
"My chamber is almost at the end. A little farther." By now, she was enjoying this so much, she rather wished it were miles away. "There. The one on the right. Mind the doorjamb."
He tucked her head to his chest and nudged the door open with his boot.
They burst into the room, and Rafe suddenly stopped.
Clio wondered if the image had struck him the way it had done her. How this must appear: Him, carrying her into the bedchamber. Her, dressed in an ivory lace gown.
They looked like newlyweds.
And there, looming before them like a raft of inevitability, was Clio's four-post bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Holy God, that bed.
Rafe marveled at it. Four soaring, carved wooden posts. A canopy of emerald velvet. And pillows. Of course, there'd be pillows.
Row after row of them, in every shade of green.
They took up half the bed, all neatly ordered by size and shape. They made Rafe want to muss them. Send them tumbling to the floor, one thrust at a time.
He set Clio down at once.
"This is not how it was supposed to go," he said. "We'll order more gowns. Ones that fit properly. I'll see to it myself."
"That won't be necessary." She turned her back to him and lifted her hair from her neck. "Just let me out of this one."
"You . . ." Rafe tugged at his neckcloth and cleared his throat. "You want me to remove your gown."
Not just any gown, but a wedding gown. With that bed nearby.
"Undo the buttons, that's all. I can't breathe in it. I've learned to survive without a lot of things--cake, weddings, the respect of my peers--but I haven't yet learned how to live without air."
He hesitated, staring at the milky softness of her exposed nape and the row of tiny, silk-covered buttons that couldn't possibly look any more innocent--and would cheerfully lead him straight into hell.
She braced herself against the bedpost with her free hand. "Please, Rafe. I'm starting to feel faint."
With a silent curse, he reached for the top button. What choice did he have? He couldn't allow her to suffocate. And as for him, he'd made his name on profligacy and bare-knuckle violence. He was already damned.
He struggled to grasp the tiny button between his thumb and forefinger without bracing his knuckles against her bare neck.
"Can you manage it?"
"I can manage it." He gritted his teeth and willed his trembling fingers to be still. "It's just that I broke this hand once, a few years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"You needn't be sorry. Just be patient."
She laughed a little, making him lose his grip again. "That's the story of my life."
At last, the first button slipped through its hole. His thumb slid beneath the fabric, brushing across the soft skin of her back.
There. Now they were under way. One button down, and . . .
He cast a glance downward.
. . . what seemed like several thousand to go. Good Lord. Did dressmakers earn wages by the button these days?
He focused his attention and concentrated on the task.
A few buttons more, and he was exposing her corset. Really, he was well acquainted with women's undergarments. How many laced corsets had he seen in his life? Dozens, surely. Perhaps scores.
None had affected him like this one.
The band of linen and whalebone was cinched so tightly around the thin, white lawn of her shift. The fragrance of violets was everywhere. Not overwhelming. Violets weren't the kind of flower to overwhelm. Their scent teased him. Cosseted his senses. Made him feel warm and safe.
And this wasn't safe at all.
If she were any other woman in the world, he could have had her half-naked by now.
But if she were any other woman in the world, he wouldn't have ached for it half so much.
He'd always had a taste for the forbidden. He'd always had a liking for her. Add in the thrill of innocent white lace against the delicate blush of her skin? His heart was thumping in his chest. Blood was rushing everywhere it shouldn't.
With every button he loosed, his depravity grew. He wanted to spread his hands, smooth his palms over the small of her back. Lay claim to her. Press his lips to the hollow at the base of her neck. Hook his finger beneath those knotted laces and pull her tight against his swelling cock.
Damn it, Rafe.
He grabbed the edges and ripped the last few buttons free.
"There. Finished." And not a moment too soon.
"My corset, too," she begged.
Oh, God.
He stood back a pace, examined the knot, and found the end of the laces. When he caught the grommet between his finger and thumb, he felt like he held the loose thread of his sanity. One tug, and he'd be completely unraveled.
He pulled it anyway. He'd come too far to do anything else.
"Breathe," he told her.
She obeyed, and her sharp intake of breath made him wild. Suddenly, this wasn't just a thousand buttons and the most enticing corset he'd ever unlaced. It was the soft heat of her lips under his. The sweetness of her kiss. Her fingers in his hair. The rain spinning a cocoon around them. Laughter and warmth.
"That's better. Thank you." She turned to face him, arms crossed over the bodice of her loosened gown. "Until this week, I hadn't tasted cake in years. It's so curious, isn't it? How if you're denied something again and again, eventually you start telling yourself you didn't want it in the first place."
He swept a lock of hair from her neck. "I think I might be familiar with that."
"When Piers was coming back from Antigua, my mother starved me for months in advance of his return. I was allowed nothing but watercress soup and beef tea, she was so determined to cinch in my waist. In the end, the malnourishment made me ill. I was so weak, I couldn't lift a pen, much less stand through a wedding ceremony. We had to postpone everything again."
The rage was enough to choke him. "She was wrong. Wrong to deny you. Wrong to make you feel anything less than perfect."
"But I'm not perfect. Not for this. If Piers thought I was perfect at seventeen, he would have married me then. The same with nineteen, and twenty-one, and twenty-three. The last time he saw me was almost two years ago, when he was here for that brief sojourn before leaving for Vienna. We could have exchanged our vows that very week, and I could have gone with him to the Continent. But he didn't want me there. I would have embarrassed him, perhaps."
"You would not have embarrassed him." Goddamn. Any man who would feel anything less than proud to have this woman at his side was a man Rafe wanted to pound into mince. Brother or no.
"My mother always said the same thing. I was a good girl. But for a marchioness, that wasn't good enough."
Rafe was beginning to understand why she'd been resisting him all this week. Time and again, she'd been saying she just wanted "good enough," and time and again he'd told her to want better.
"Clio, you are . . ." Sensual, alluring, voluptuous. "Beautiful."
Somehow he had to make her believe this. If his sordid past and plainspoken nature would ever come in useful, this was the time.
"Believe me," he said. "There are a great many men who prefer women with something to them."
"Are you saying Piers is one of those men?"
"There's a solid chance of it. I'm his brother, and I'm one of those men."
God, the feel of her under him in the dining room yesterday. He could still sense her lushness embossed on his body. Every curve.
"Then that means there's no chance at all," she said. "You and Piers are nothing alike."
"You're right," he said. "My brother and I are different in many ways. In almost every way. He's a diplomat. I'm a fighter. He's driven by duty. I'm a rebel. He spent eight years neglecting to tell you just how goddamn attractive you are." He walked to the door, shut it, and turned the key. "I'm not going to wait another m
inute."
At the click of the lock, a shiver raced down Clio's spine. She crossed her arms over the bodice of her unbuttoned gown and hugged herself tight.
"I'm not going to touch you," Rafe said. "I'm just going to talk."
She shivered again. Did he mean that as some sort of comfort? His voice was the most dangerous thing about him.
"Unlike my brother, I don't have any difficulty saying what needs to be said. No matter how rude or impolitic." He paced back and forth in front of the door. "Listen to me. You . . . you didn't have brothers. You don't know the adolescent male mind. We can't get enough of female bodies. Breasts, hips, legs. Hell, even a glimpse of ankle will get our blood pumping. We spy on the maids when they're bathing, we trade lewd sketches . . ."
"Why are we speaking of this?"
"Because every man has one woman who was his first proper fantasy. The first he thought about, day and night. The first he woke from dreams of, hard and aching." He met her gaze. "You were that woman for me."
"I . . ." Clio was breathless. "I was?"
"You were." He stepped toward her. "Hell, you still are. I've wanted you since I was a randy youth. This body made me wild. Every lush, round, maddeningly erotic curve. There are a thousand carnal things I've dreamed about doing to, with, on, or inside you."
Clio didn't know how to reply to that. So, naturally, she came out with the most pedantic, silly reply possible. "A thousand? That's a rather incredible number."
"An exaggeration, perhaps. But not by much. Do you want to hear a list?
She nodded. If it saved her from speaking, she would love nothing more.
"Let's see." His gaze roamed her body. "I can start with your breasts. They take up the first fifty places on the list alone. One, fondling. Two, nuzzling. Then kissing, licking, sucking in that order. Five, biting gently. Six, biting harder. Seven, pressing your breasts together, holding them tight around my thrusting cock."
She blinked at him. "Really?"
"You said it yourself. Men are disgusting."
"I suppose I wouldn't call that disgusting. Just . . . surprising."
In fact the mere picture of it--if she could trust her imagination to picture it properly--was drawing her nipples to tight points and making her warm between her thighs.
"And I'm not even to ten yet," he said. "I'm just getting started. There are things on that list even I can't say aloud."
He took a step back and began to circle her in slow paces.
"Bloody hell. There've been times I didn't know how to look at you. Because you were such a good girl, and in my mind, I'd made you do such wicked, wicked things. I have wanted you ever since I can remember wanting."