Say Yes to the Marquess

  Clio turned to Daphne and said the words she knew her sister had been longing to hear for years.

  "Make me beautiful."

  "This is madness."

  Rafe had spent enough time in drawing rooms this week to last him a lifetime. And he certainly had no wish to see Clio fitted in a gown for a wedding that wasn't meant to be theirs.

  "Maybe we ought to leave," he said.

  He didn't know what the devil was wrong with him, but if he had any decency, he would cease inflicting it on Clio.

  "Are you syphilitic?" Bruiser had his ear pressed to the connecting door. "We are not going to leave. Rafe, you don't know what I've been through in the past few days. Just getting the dressmakers here from London was difficult enough. But that ring? Oh, you owe me for that ring."

  Rafe didn't know how to argue with that. In truth, he owed Bruiser all manner of debts. It occurred to him that his trainer just might be the one person in his life he'd managed to not drive away.

  "How long have we been working together?" Rafe asked. "Five years?"

  "Six, by my counting."

  "And I'm going to assume that you dream about leaving my employ just as often as I contemplate setting you loose."

  "Daily, you mean? Oh, certainly."

  "So how is it that we've kept this partnership together?"

  Bruiser gave him an annoyed look. "By not overthinking it."

  Right.

  Perhaps there was a seed of truth in his trainer's impatient answer. Rafe should stop overthinking things. He loved Clio. He'd do anything to keep her. Anything. That was God's truth as it lived in his heart, and what he meant to tell her the instant she came through the door.

  "She's coming. Stand up."

  He knew he was in trouble before she even entered the room. He could hear it in the rhythm of her footsteps. Brisk. Confident. Fierce.

  No thunks.

  Or clunks.

  She felt powerful. Which meant she would be beautiful.

  He rose to his feet, found his center of balance, kept his joints loose, and got ready to roll with the punch.

  The doors opened.

  Holy God. He didn't stand a chance.

  She was a knockout.

  Bruiser pumped his fist. "Now that's more like it."

  Rafe didn't even see the gown. It was white, he assumed. Or eggshell, or ivory. There was probably silk and lace involved. Perhaps a few brilliants or pearls. Really, he couldn't have described the cut or style or fabric to save his neck.

  He only saw her.

  The gown was like a master-crafted gold setting, and Clio was the jewel allowed to shine.

  "Well?" Daphne prompted. "What do you think?"

  An excellent question. What did he think? His brain had ceased responding.

  Words. He should say some words, but he had no words. He was finding it difficult to locate air. All that came out was, "You . . . It's . . . Buh."

  "Exquisite."

  The suavely articulated pronouncement came from somewhere behind him, but Rafe recognized the voice at once. He didn't even need to turn. Now that the old marquess was dead, that voice could only belong to one man.

  "Piers," Clio breathed.

  It was Piers. In the flesh.

  Every time Rafe saw him, Piers looked more and more like their father. Tall. Strong, but lean. His dark hair had picked up a few new threads of silver. Squared shoulders like a shelf, with that refined, aristocratic face--unbroken nose and all--as its only ornament.

  Ice blue eyes that saw everything and found it all wanting.

  "I can't believe you're here," Clio said.

  "It's me. I'm back in England for good this time. And this is the best possible welcome home." His gaze alternated between Clio and Rafe. "Seeing you both. The two people I care for most in the world."

  Piers crossed the carpet in decisive, very Granville strides, coming face-to-face with Rafe. "About Father."

  All the apologies and explanations Rafe had mulled over during the past few months . . . They all fled his brain.

  And then his brother pulled him into a hug.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered in Rafe's ear. "I'm sorry you had to bury him alone. Damn it. I should have been there, too."

  Oh, Jesus.

  "This is magical." Bruiser dabbed a tear from his eye. "I couldn't have planned it any better."

  Rafe didn't want to hear about Bruiser and his magic. His emotions were in such turmoil, he thought he might be sick.

  It only got worse.

  Next, Piers walked the distance to Clio, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Just look at you. Exquisite. Perfect."

  And then . . . oh God . . . he kissed her.

  Piers kissed "his" bride, right in front of everyone, and there wasn't a damned thing Rafe could do about it. Except inwardly howl and bleed.

  "I should have done that years ago," Piers said upon lifting his head. "I wanted to."

  "You wanted to?" she asked.

  "Yes, of course."

  "Then . . . Why the eight bloody years of delay?" It really wasn't Rafe's place to ask, but he couldn't help it.

  "It was for your safety." His brother released a heavy sigh. "I owe a thousand apologies to you both. I've lied to you for years now."

  "Lied? About what?"

  "The nature of my work."

  "Were you not a diplomat?" Clio asked.

  "Oh, I was working for the Foreign Office. And diplomacy was the larger part of it. But there were other duties, too. Ones I wasn't so free to discuss."

  Rafe swore. "You're not saying you're some kind of spy?"

  "No. We avoid saying that, generally." He turned back to Clio. "It didn't seem fair to marry you until I'd finished my work. But these damnable wars kept dragging on and . . . What's this?" Piers lifted her hand and peered at it. "You're not wearing your ring."

  "Oh, that." Bruiser leapt to explain. "It's being cleaned, my lord."

  Piers turned and stared at him. "Who the devil are you?"

  Bruiser tugged on his lapels and straightened his spine. "Who do you think I am?"

  "An imposing jackass?"

  Bruiser lifted the quizzing glass. "What about now?"

  "An imposing jackass with a monocle."

  Maybe this scene was some sort of magic. Rafe had always known there was much he should admire about Piers. But in this moment, he actually liked his brother.

  Daphne intervened. "Oh, Lord Granville. Don't be such a tease. You know it's Mr. Montague. We've been working on the wedding preparations all week. Everything's ready. Why, with Clio all dressed . . . the two of you could be married today."

  "Daphne," Clio said.

  Her sister replied through clenched teeth, "Don't argue. It would be a prudent idea, after last night."

  "What happened last night?" Piers asked.

  Daphne waved a hand. "There was the worst sort of scene at a ball, but Clio was blameless. It was all Lord Rafe's fault."

  Piers smiled a little. "The worst scenes are usually Rafe's fault."

  Oh, yes. They were.

  And Rafe felt another scene coming on now.

  His brother had an arm around Clio. Like it belonged there. It was enough to make Rafe taste smoke and smell blood.

  Step away from her, he willed. She's not yours.

  "Piers, we need to talk," Clio said.

  "Yes, I think we should. I'm beginning to suspect I never actually left the Continent, and this is all just one elaborate hallucination." Piers cleared his throat and brought out that classic Granville ring of authority. "Will someone tell me, in simple words, just what is going on?"

  "I will." Phoebe meandered into the room, holding a book. "Clio's not going to marry you. She's going to live here in this castle and open a brewery."

  "Thank you," Piers said. "Now I know I'm going mad."

  "She's not yours," Rafe said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Rafe knew he was the one who'd be begging all the pardons. But it had to come out
, and he couldn't wait. "You heard me. She's not yours anymore."

  His brother's gaze narrowed to an icy beam of interrogation. "What did you do?"

  "Only what she asked."

  "You bastard. Did you touch her?"

  "I--"

  "Rafe, don't," Clio said, sounding frantic. "Please."

  Her words were a stab to the heart.

  Granted, it was a self-inflicted wound. He'd told her all week she should marry Piers. He'd repeated that same stupidity this morning. And now the man himself was back, setting all her insecurities to rest with a worldly air and a hero's mantle. And kisses.

  Why would she ever choose Rafe?

  If Rafe could choose to be any man in this room, he wouldn't choose Rafe.

  Clio turned to Piers. "You must understand. Your brother's been so loyal to you. When I had doubts about the wedding, he tried to change my mind. He made every effort to convince me, said such lovely things on your behalf. That's not all he's done. He's managed Oakhaven in your absence. And wait until you see what marvelous care he's taken of . . ."

  Her voice trailed off as she glanced about the room, ducking to peer under the furnishings.

  "Oh, dear. Has anyone seen the dog?"

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ellingworth! Ellingworth, darling, are you here?"

  Clio hurried up and down the garden paths, ducking to peer under every bench and shrub, and pausing at each corner to wipe the rain from her eyes. They'd searched the entire castle already. He had to be outside somewhere.

  The mud puddles sucked at her heeled slippers, slowing her down. Eventually, she gave up on them, kicking her shoes off. Her stockings were already wet through.

  Slippers clutched in one hand and skirts gathered in the other, she began to race down the row of neatly trimmed hedges and arbors. The longer they went without finding the bulldog, the more her anxiousness increased. Dogs were made to withstand some rain and chill. But a dog this old, already in poor health?

  Poor Ellingworth.

  Poor Rafe.

  It would kill Rafe if something happened to that dog. He'd taken care of the beast so faithfully all these years. Those meticulous diets, all the special veterinary care . . .

  But it wouldn't only be the wasted effort, or the disappointment of letting his brother down. Rafe loved that ugly, old dog. Clio knew he did.

  And Clio loved Rafe.

  She began to run faster. A thorny branch caught the puff of her sleeve, and she yanked free, ripping the fabric.

  "Ellingworth! Ellingworth, where are you?"

  She stumbled over a rock in the path, wrenching her ankle and nearly sprawling face-first into the mud. She caught herself on hands and knees instead.

  "Damn."

  She pushed to her feet, wiped her hands on the ruined ivory silk, and trudged on, pushing her panic aside. Focus, Clio. Fear wasn't helpful now. She began preparing a list of orders in her mind. The moment they located Ellingworth, she would send one of the drivers for the veterinarian. Direct the housekeeper to prepare hot water, warmed towels. Ask cook for a mince of beef, mixed with raw egg. Did dogs take beef tea? It was good for chilled people, after all.

  They had to find that dog. They would find that dog.

  As she crossed beneath an arbor, she pulled up and stopped. A flash of white caught her eye.

  There. On the far side of the garden, low to the ground. Beneath the bank of apricot-colored roses. Was that . . . ?

  Letting her skirts fall into the mud, she swiped aside the rain-matted hair from her brow and blinked into the rain. Her labored breathing made it difficult to concentrate. She struggled to calm herself and look sharp.

  "Oh, no."

  There was Ellingworth. Huddled beneath a rosebush. Lying on his side.

  Unmoving.

  Please. Please, God. Don't let him be dead.

  Dread gathered like a rain cloud as she rushed toward the bulldog. Ellingworth was on the opposite side of the rosebushes, so she had to race down the length of the aisle and around the other path to reach him.

  "Ellingworth, darling. Hang on. I'm coming."

  When she rounded the corner, she stopped short.

  Rafe.

  His dark green coat had blended in with the shrubs, and she hadn't been able to see him from the arbor. But he was there, crouched beside the unmoving bulldog, one of his big, knotty boxer's hands placed to the dog's side.

  Rafe didn't raise his head. But Clio sensed he knew she was there.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. As she moved closer, all the urgency was gone from her steps. "Is he . . . ?"

  She couldn't even ask the question.

  He shook his head no.

  Relief flooded her as she covered the remaining distance to Rafe's side. "Oh, thank goodness."

  Now that she was closer, she could make out the slight rise and fall of the dog's breathing. Thank heavens.

  But even though the dog was alive, all the vigor seemed to have gone out of Rafe. He was so quiet.

  "Best not to leave him lying here," she said, trying to sound cheery. "Poor old dear. The ground's so wet and cold. Let's bundle him up and carry him in. Don't worry, we'll have him mended in a trice. I'll send for the veterinarian from the village. The one from London, if you like. There's some excellent beef loin Cook has from the butcher. It was meant for our dinner, but it will be perfect for Ellingworth. We'll mince it finer than--"

  Rafe shook his head. "It's no use, Clio."

  "Of course it is."

  "He's not gone yet. But he's going."

  No sooner had he spoken the words than the dog released a faint, wheezing breath.

  "No," she protested. "No, he can't be dying."

  "It won't be long now. This is the way with dogs." His voice was quiet and emotionless as he stroked the dog's ear. "Just how they are. They know when it's their time. So they slip away and find a quiet place to--"

  His voice broke, and Clio's heart broke with it. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her emotion, not wanting to distress dog or man. Nevertheless, her voice wavered as she reached to stroke Ellingworth's paw. "We're here, darling. We're here, just as long as you need us."

  Rafe said, "You should go inside. I'll stay with him."

  "I'm not leaving either of you."

  After rubbing her hands together to warm them, she reached out and placed a gentle touch to Ellingworth's paw. "What a good boy you are. How proud you've done us."

  Rafe stood just long enough to remove his coat. As he sat beside her, he moved to drape the coat over her shoulders. A thoughtful gesture, but Clio stayed it with a shake of her head.

  She took the coat from his hands and draped it over the dog instead. "He needs it more than I do."

  One by one, their party grew.

  "Oh, dear." Daphne and Teddy made their way down the path. "Is he . . . ?"

  "Soon," Clio said.

  "Jesus and all the saints." Bruiser joined them, for once not bothering to hide his broad, common accent. "Not now. How can he do this to us now? Surely there's something to be done."

  Phoebe found them next. "He's fourteen," she said, crouching next to Rafe. "The typical life expectancy of a bulldog is no more than twelve years. If you compared his existence to a human life, he would be nearing one hundred years old. So there's really no reason to be surprised. Or, for that matter, to grieve. He had a long life."

  Rafe nodded. "I know."

  "Just the same, I . . ." Phoebe threw her arms around him in an awkward hug. "I'm sorry about your dog."

  Oh, dear. Now Clio was certainly going to cry.

  Ellingworth's breathing grew rattling, raspy.

  "He's going, isn't he?" Daphne buried her face in her husband's lapel. "I can't look."

  "We're here, darling." Clio sniffed back her tears and stroked the dog's wrinkled head. "We're all here with you. Be at peace."

  And then the rasping breaths ceased.

  All was quiet.

  "Here you all are."
Piers joined the group. "Is that Ellingworth under the rosebush?"

  No one knew what to say. Clio reached for Rafe's hand.

  "I tried," Rafe said hoarsely. "I tried my best, but I should have known . . ."

  If Piers heard him, he didn't reply. Instead, he knelt and wedged himself between Rafe and Clio, breaking them apart. He knelt at the dog's side and lifted the corner of the coat. "Good old Ellingworth. Did you miss me, old fellow?"

  "It's no use," Rafe said. "He's gone."

  "No, no. We played this game all the time. He's only hiding. Aren't you, pup?"

  Beneath Rafe's coat . . . something moved.

  The wheezing canine breaths that had dwindled to nothing . . . resumed again. They began to grow stronger.

  The dog's head lifted. He emerged from under the coat and started to lick Piers's hand. His stumpy tail wagged to and fro.

  "Cor," Bruiser said. "He's alive. The dog's alive."

  Daphne pulled her head from her husband's lapel. "It's a miracle."

  And perhaps it was. Ellingworth was like a pup again. Wagging his nonexistent tail, bounding up and sniffing at Piers's hand.

  "That's a good boy," Piers chuckled as he scratched the reviving bulldog behind the ears. "It's fine to see you again. It's been a few years."

  "He's glad to see you," Clio said.

  "It would seem he's happy I'm home." His eyes caught hers. "Are you happy I'm home?"

  "I . . ."

  Oh, goodness. Piers had always been handsome, worldly, authoritative . . . but whatever he'd been doing in the past eight years, it had taken those qualities and honed them to weapons. The absence of any vulnerabilities in his demeanor was what convinced Clio those weaknesses must be there somewhere beneath the suave control. When he'd kissed her, she'd felt it. He wasn't an arrogant young diplomat anymore--but a man who'd come through trials and confronted his mortality. A man who just might be ready to share those vulnerable parts of himself with another, trusted soul.

  "Yes," she said. "I am so glad to see you, Piers. You returned at the perfect moment."

  She was glad Piers had come home. She was glad he seemed to want her. She was glad he'd kissed her--just this once, and after all this time. Because now she knew, without any question, that the choices in her heart were hers.

  "I have papers you need to see," Rafe said. Wearing a grim expression, he rose to his feet. "I'll dash up to get them, and then we'll talk."

  "Rafe, wait."

  Rafe shook out his arms as he walked back to the castle.

  This was so like Piers. It wasn't enough that he'd been their father's favorite son. It wasn't enough that he'd returned from some sort of mysterious, dashing work in the service of the Crown and would probably be decorated with knighthoods and laurels. It wasn't enough that he had the most beautiful bride in all England ready to walk down the aisle with him this very day.