Say Yes to the Marquess

  And absolutely no distractions.

  Then who should walk through the door? None other than Miss Clio Whitmore, his most persistent and personal distraction. Of course.

  He'd always been at odds with her, ever since they were children. He'd been an impulsive, rough-mannered devil. And she'd been the picture of an English rose, with her fair hair, blue eyes, and delicate complexion. Genteel and hospitable and well-mannered, too.

  Just so irritatingly sweet.

  In sum, Clio Whitmore was the embodiment of polite society. Everything Rafe had spurned at the age of twenty-one. Everything he'd vowed to dismantle.

  And that had to be what made it so damned tempting to dismantle her.

  Whenever Clio was near, he couldn't resist shocking her proper sensibilities with a flex or two of brute strength. He liked to devil her until he turned her cheeks some new, exotic shade of pink. And he'd wondered, many times, how she'd look with that slick knot of golden hair undone, tangled from lovemaking and damp with sweat.

  She was his brother's intended. It was wrong to think of her that way. But outside a boxing ring, Rafe had never done much of anything right.

  He pulled his gaze from the frothy white fichu edging her neckline. "I think I misheard you."

  "Oh, I'm certain you heard me correctly. I have the papers right here." She unrolled a sheaf of papers in her gloved hand. "My solicitors drew them up. Would you like me to summarize?"

  Annoyed, he reached for the papers. "I can read."

  Somewhat.

  Like all the legal documents shoved in front of him since the old marquess's death, the papers were written in hen scratches so tight and close as to be indecipherable. Just glancing at it gave him a headache.

  But that one glance told him enough.

  This was serious.

  "These aren't valid," he said. "Piers would have to sign them first."

  "Yes, well. There is someone with the power to sign for Piers in his absence." Her blue gaze met his.

  No.

  Rafe couldn't believe this. "That's why you're here. You want me to sign this?"

  "Yes."

  "Not going to happen." He thrust the papers back at her, then walked over to the punching bag and gave it a booming right cross. "Piers is on his way home from Vienna. And you are meant to be planning the wedding as we speak."

  "Exactly why I hoped to have these papers signed before he arrives. It seems the best way. I'd hate to make an unpleasant scene, and . . ."

  "And unpleasant scenes are my specialty."

  She shrugged. "Quite."

  Rafe lowered his head and threw a barrage of jabs at the punching bag. This time, he wasn't putting on a display. His brain worked better when his body was in motion. Fighting brought him to his sharpest focus, and he needed that now.

  Why the hell would Clio want to break this engagement? She was a society debutante, raised for advantageous marriage the way thoroughbred horses were bred to race. A lavish wedding to a wealthy, handsome marquess should be her fondest dream.

  "You won't find a better prospect," he said.

  "I know."

  "And you must want to get married. What else could you hope to do with your life?"

  She laughed into her sherry. "What else, indeed. It's not as though we ladies are allowed to have interests or pursuits of our own."

  "Exactly. Unless . . ." He held his punch. "Unless there's someone else."

  She was quiet for a moment. "There's no one else."

  "Then it's the anticipation getting to you. Just a case of cold feet."

  "It's not that I'm a nervous bride, either. I simply don't wish to marry a man who doesn't want to marry me."

  "Why would you think he doesn't want to marry you?" He threw a right hook at the bag, then followed it with a left.

  "Because I've looked at the calendar. Eight years have passed since he proposed. If you truly wanted a woman, would you wait that long to make her your own?"

  He let his fists fall to his sides and turned to her, breathing hard. His lungs filled with the scent of violets. Damn, she even smelled sweet.

  "No," he said. "I wouldn't."

  "I didn't think so."

  "But," he continued, "I'm an impulsive bastard. This is about Piers. He's the loyal, honorable son."

  Her eyebrow made the slightest quirk. "If you believe the scandal sheets, he has a mistress and four children tucked away somewhere."

  "I don't read the scandal sheets."

  "Perhaps you should. You're often in them."

  He didn't doubt it. Rafe knew the vile things that were said about him, and he took every opportunity to encourage the gossip. Reputation didn't win fights, but it drew crowds and lined pockets.

  "It's not as though Piers hasn't had reasons for delaying. He's an important man." Rafe fought to keep a straight face. Listen to him, singing his brother's praises. That didn't happen often. It didn't happen ever. "There was that post in India. Then the one in Antigua. He came home between assignments, but then there was some delay."

  She looked down. "I was ill."

  "Right. Then there was a war to settle, and another after that. Now that all these treaties in Vienna are hammered out, he's on his way home."

  "It's not that I begrudge his sense of duty," she said. "Nor how essential he's made himself to the Crown. But it's become abundantly clear that I'm not essential to him."

  Rafe rubbed his face with both hands and growled into them.

  "My solicitors told me I'd have a case for a breach of promise suit. But I didn't want to embarrass him. Now that I have Twill Castle, I don't require the security of marriage. A quiet dissolution is best for all concerned."

  "No. It's not best. Not at all."

  Not best for Piers, not best for Clio.

  And definitely not best for Rafe.

  He'd put his prizefighting career on hold after his father's death. He didn't have a choice. With Piers out of the country, Rafe found himself, however unwillingly, at the helm of the Granville fortune.

  He belonged in a boxing ring, not an office. He knew it, and so did the solicitors and stewards, who barely managed to veil their disdain. They came armed with folios and ledgers and a dozen matters for his attention, and before Rafe sorted his way through one issue, they were on to the next. Each meeting left him restless and simmering with resentment--as though he'd been sent down from Eton all over again.

  Rafe could all but hear his father twisting in his grave, spitting worms and grinding out those same, familiar words.

  No son of mine will remain an uneducated brute. No son of mine will disgrace this family's legacy.

  Rafe had always been a disappointment. He'd never been the son his father wanted. But he'd made his own life, earned his own title--not "lord," but "champion." As soon as Piers returned to England and married, he would be free to fight again and get that title back.

  If Clio called off the wedding, however . . . ?

  His globe-wandering brother might turn around and disappear for another eight years.

  "Piers has likely been hoping for this outcome all along," Clio said. "He wanted out of the engagement, but his honor wouldn't permit him to ask. When he learns the dissolution is already done, I expect he'll be relieved."

  "Piers will not be relieved. And I'm not going to let you do this."

  "I don't wish to quarrel." She rolled the papers and tapped the cylinder on its edge. "You have my apologies for the intrusion. I'll take my leave now. And I'll bring these papers with me to Kent. If you change your mind about signing them, I'll be at Twill Castle. It's near the village of Charingwood."

  "I won't sign. And mark my words, you won't ask him to sign it, either. When he comes back, you'll know at once that the gossip was baseless. You'll be reminded of the reasons why you consented to be his bride in the first place. And you will marry him."

  "No. I won't."

  "Think of it. You'll be a marchioness."

  "No," she said. "I truly won't."
br />   Her quiet, solemn tone unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Hell, his palms were even growing damp. It was as though he could feel his career--everything he'd worked for, and the only thing that made his life worth a damn--slipping from his grasp.

  She moved to leave, and he lunged to catch her by the arm. "Clio, wait."

  "He doesn't want me." Her voice broke. "Can't you understand that? Everyone knows. It took me too many years to see the truth. But I'm done waiting. He doesn't want me, and I no longer want him. I have to protect my heart."

  Damn it all. So that's what this was. He should have guessed. The reason for her sudden reluctance was as plain as the lion on the Granville crest.

  Rafe was the rebel of the family, but Piers had been chipped straight from their father's stone. Upright, proud, unyielding. And most of all, unwilling to show emotion.

  Rafe didn't have a damned thing in common with a society debutante, but he knew that it hurt to feel unwanted by the Marquess of Granville. He'd spent his own youth starved for the slightest sign of his father's affection or approval--and he'd loathed himself when those signs never came.

  "Piers wants you." He silenced her objection, rubbing his thumb up and down her arm. God, she was soft there. "He will. Make those wedding plans, Clio. Because when he sees you again for the first time, it's going to come as a blow to the ribs, that wanting. He's going to want to see you in that grand, lacy gown, with little blossoms strewn in your hair. He's going to want to watch you walk down that aisle, feeling his chest swell closer to bursting from pride with every step you take. And most of all, he'll want to stand before God, your friends and family, and all of London society--just to tell them you're his. His, and no one else's."

  She didn't respond.

  "You're going to want that, too." He released her arm with a squeeze, then chucked her under the chin. "Mark my words. I'll see you married to my brother within the month--even if I have to plan the damn wedding myself."

  "What?" She shook herself. "You, plan the wedding?"

  A little smile played about her lips as she looked to the exposed ceiling rafters, the barren brick walls, the rough-hewn furniture . . . then back to him. The most crude, inelegant thing in the room.

  "Now I'm almost sorry it's not going to happen," she said, pulling away. "Because that would be amusing."

  Chapter Two

  Which room do you think Daphne and Sir Teddy will prefer?"

  Clio stood in the corridor, at the center point between two doorways. She smoothed fretful hands over her new emerald green silk.

  "Should we put them in the Blue Room, with the windows looking over the park? Or should I give them the larger chamber, even if it faces the shaded side of the property?"

  Anna fussed and clucked, pulling loose one last curling paper from Clio's hair. "Miss Whitmore, if you want my opinion, I think you shouldn't fret over it. Whichever one you choose, she's certain to find fault."

  Clio sighed. It was true. If there was a door to shut and a candle to read by, Phoebe was content. But Daphne took after their mother--impossible to impress.

  "Let's put them in this one," she said, crossing into the first bedchamber. "It truly is the best."

  The Blue Room boasted four soaring windows and an expansive view of Twill's lovely gardens. Plump hedges like sugarplums. Rosebushes in endless varieties. Arbors lush with flowering vines. And beyond it all, the rolling expanse of Kent in late summertime. The fields were the same brilliant jade as her new frock, and the air smelled of blossoms and crushed grass--as though the sun were a magnet hung in the sky, extracting life from the earth. Drawing out everything green and fresh.

  If anything could impress her sister, surely it would be this room. This view.

  This marvelous castle. Which was, thanks to some whim of her uncle's, now Clio's.

  Twill Castle was her chance at . . . well, at everything. Independence. Freedom. Security. A future that would have been hers already if only Rafe had cooperated.

  She should have known better than to ask. Rafe Brandon simply didn't cooperate, in the same way lions didn't cuddle with zebras. It wasn't in his nature. Every explosive, muscled inch of him was formed for rebellion and defiance . . . interspersed with heavy lifting.

  A thin plume of white in the distance caught her eye. Two coaches, approaching on the gravel drive.

  "They're here!" she called out. "Oh, dear. They're here."

  She rushed down the corridor toward the front stairs, pausing to peer into each room on her way.

  Good. Good. Perfect.

  Not perfect.

  Reeling to a stop on her way down the grand staircase, Clio paused to nudge a hanging portrait square. Then she took the remaining steps at the fastest clip she dared, hurrying across the entrance hall to the open front door.

  Two carriages rolled to a halt in the drive.

  Servants began piling out of the second coach, unloading valises and trunks. A footman hastened to open the door of the family carriage.

  Daphne emerged first, dressed in a lavender traveling habit and a spencer with matching piping--both the height of this summer's fashion.

  Clio moved forward, arms outstretched. "Daphne, dear. How was your journ--"

  Daphne shot a meaningful look at the servants. "Really, Clio. Don't be common. I have a title now."

  After nearly a year of marriage, Daphne was still . . . Daphne.

  Thanks to all the effort their mother had invested in Clio's education and breeding, Mama had been too distracted to mold her second daughter into anything but a fashion-mad, rake-chasing chit. It had been a sort of relief when Daphne eloped with Sir Teddy Cambourne last year, only two months after her debut. He was a shallow, preening sort of gentleman, but at least he had an income and a baronetcy. Her sister could have done much worse.

  "Lady Cambourne." Clio made a formal curtsy. "Welcome to Twill Castle. I'm so delighted you and Sir Teddy have come."

  "Hullo, dumpling." Her brother-in-law gave her a familiar nudge on the arm.

  "But of course we would come," Daphne said. "We couldn't let you stay here all alone while you wait for Lord Granville's return. And once he does return, we'll have a wedding to plan."

  Fortunately, their youngest sister emerged from the carriage at that moment--saving Clio from inventing a reply.

  "Phoebe, darling. It's so good to see you."

  Clio wanted to catch the girl in a hug, but Phoebe didn't like hugs. Already, she had a thick book positioned as a shield.

  "You've grown so tall this summer," she said instead. "And so pretty."

  At sixteen, Phoebe was willowy and dark-haired, with soft features and bold blue eyes. Well on her way to becoming a beauty. Based on looks alone, she would be a grand success in her first season. But there was something . . . different . . . about Phoebe. There always had been. It seemed as though there was so much happening within her own remarkable mind, she struggled to connect with the people around her.

  "We would have been here hours ago if not for the dreadful crush at Charing Cross," Teddy said. "And then two hours to cross the dashed bridge. Two hours."

  "I thought the smell would make me sick," Daphne said.

  Phoebe consulted her pocket watch. "We misjudged the time of departure. If we'd left twenty minutes earlier, we would have arrived fifty minutes ago."

  "I'm just happy you're here now," Clio said, leading the way toward the arched entrance. "Please do come in, all of you."

  Daphne held her back. "I come first, you know. Perhaps you will be a marchioness within the month, and perhaps I am your younger sister. But since I am married and a lady, I take precedence. For a least a few more weeks."

  Clio stepped aside. "Yes, of course."

  The gawping mouth of Twill Castle swallowed them in, and an awed hush seized their tongues.

  Even four hundred years ago, stonemasons knew how to build to impress. The castle's entrance hall soared the full height of the building. A grand staircase wrapped around the spac
e, drawing the eye upward. And then upward yet some more. Gilt-framed paintings and portraits--not small ones--climbed every inch of available wall, stacking four or five high in places.

  After several moments, Teddy whistled low.

  "It is nice, isn't it?" Daphne said. "Quite grand. Only I think it would be better if it weren't so . . . so old."

  "It's a castle," Phoebe said. "How can it not be old?"

  Daphne pinched Clio's arm in a gesture that seemed half affection, half spite. "But a home is a reflection of its mistress. You shouldn't let the place show that it's getting on in age. For instance, you could cover all these ugly stone walls with new paneling. Or French toile. And then we'll drape some fresh silk on you."

  Her sister swept Clio with a look that made her new frock feel frowsy and tattered. Then she clucked her tongue in a frighteningly accurate impression of Mama.

  "Not to worry," she said, patting Clio's shoulders. "We do have a few weeks yet to improve. Isn't that right, Teddy?"

  "Oh, yes," he agreed. "We'll make certain his lordship doesn't bolt again."

  Clio smiled and turned away. Partly because "smile and look elsewhere" was the only way to cope with her brother-in-law, but mostly because her attention was drawn toward the gravel drive.

  A lone rider approached on a dark horse, churning up great clouds of dust as he thundered down the lane.

  "Did someone else come from London with you?"

  "No one," Teddy said.

  "Could that . . ." Daphne joined her in the arched entryway and squinted. "Oh, no. Could that be Rafe Brandon?"

  Yes.

  That could only be Rafe Brandon.

  He'd always been a magnificent rider. They seemed to have a sort of animal understanding, he and horses. A communion of beastly natures.

  As if to demonstrate, he brought his mount to a halt in the circular drive without any shouting or hauling on the reins, but merely using a firm nudge of his knee to steer the beast into a tight circle.

  With a calming word to the horse, Rafe dismounted in one smooth motion. Massive boots punched the ground. His riding breeches were buckskin. All men's riding breeches were buckskin. But she would wager anything that this buckskin was stretched over this man's thighs more tightly than it had stretched over the original buck.