Hell, there were sixteen pillows on his bed, arranged like a Druid monument to her powers of organization.
Besides, these wedding plans were supposed to make her enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying Piers and becoming the Marchioness of Granville. That would be a great deal less likely with Sir Coxcomb and Lady Featherbrain meddling in everything.
“Miss Whitmore may have anything she wishes,” he said. “Anything at all. No expense will be spared.”
“Of course,” Daphne said. “Fortunately, I keep abreast of all the latest fashions, both in London and on the Continent. This wedding will be the finest England has seen in a decade. After dinner, we’ll start on a list of tasks.”
“I can start the list now.” Phoebe pushed aside the berries and custard a servant had just placed before her, withdrawing a pencil and small notebook from her pocket.
“We’ll need a location,” Daphne said. “Does the castle have a chapel?”
“Yes,” Clio said. “A lovely one. I’d been hoping to give you all a proper tour after dinner. The architecture of the place is—”
Daphne waved her off. “More boring stones and cobwebs. If they’ve been here for four hundred years, they can wait. The wedding plans cannot. I suppose there’s a curate or vicar in the neighborhood. Then there’s only the matter of a license . . . Someone will need to procure a special license from Canterbury.”
“I’ll do that.” Rafe would be needing excuses to leave the castle anyhow. What was the distance, some twenty miles? A good length for a run. Then he’d hire a horse for the return journey.
“We already have the wedding party in attendance,” Phoebe said, making a note, then immediately striking it through. “Daphne will stand up with Clio, and Lord Rafe will be the best man.”
At those words, his thoughts reeled to a halt somewhere on the outskirts of Canterbury.
The best man?
Out of the question. Rafe would be the worst man for that duty.
Abandoning her untouched custard, Clio rose from the table. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, ladies? We can leave the gentlemen to their port.”
A glass of port would have been welcome. As a rule, Rafe didn’t take strong spirits while training. He might reconsider that rule this week.
Then he caught Clio’s gaze, pleading with him over a sea of cut crystal.
On second thought, he decided against the port. There would be no reconsidering the rules. This was a week for the rules to be unbendable. No spirits stronger than wine. No indulgent foods.
No women.
“Yes, let’s go to the drawing room,” Daphne said. “We’ll start on the guest list.”
“This is all happening too fast,” Clio said. “I don’t see any reason to make plans until Piers returns.”
“I see a reason, dear sister. I see eight years’ worth of reasons.”
“Don’t argue it, dumpling.” Cambourne motioned for the footman to bring port. “Best to have the mousetrap all baited and set, considering how many times he’s escaped it already. Clap that ball and chain on him before he has a chance to run. Isn’t that right, Brandon?”
The man laughed heartily at his own joke.
Rafe wasn’t laughing. He could feel that familiar, reckless anger rising in his chest. “My brother is looking forward to the wedding.”
“Believe me. We’re all looking forward to this wedding.” Cambourne leaned forward. “Word to the wise. Ball and chain. Look into it.”
Slam.
Rafe’s palms met the tabletop with a violent crash. China rattled. Crystal shivered.
People stared.
He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Rafe needed to look into something other than Sir Teddy Cambourne’s smirking face, or he was going to overturn this dining table—china, crystal, silver, and all.
Chapter Four
By the time Rafe had charged upstairs, gathered the dog, carried him downstairs for a quick turn out of doors, then carried him back up three flights of stone steps and deposited him by the hearth in his bedchamber, he’d lost the volatile edge of his anger.
Now he was just . . . lost.
He stopped a footman in the corridor. “Miss Whitmore and her guests?”
“In the drawing room, my lord.”
“Very good.” He took two paces, then stopped and turned on his heel. “And the drawing room would be . . . ?”
“In the east wing. To the end of the corridor, turn right, down the stairs, and through the entrance hall to the left, my lord.”
“Right.”
Or was it left?
Rafe stalked down the passageway before he could forget that litany of directions. He was navigating his way through the maze of passages and corridors, picking up speed as he rounded a corner—
When he collided, bodily, with someone coming the other way.
Clio.
“Oof.”
She recoiled with the force of the impact, like a grasshopper bouncing off the flank of a galloping horse.
He caught her by the wrist, steadying her. “Sorry.”
“I’m fine.”
She might be fine, but Rafe needed a moment. In just the brief instant of their collision, he felt like he’d been branded with her body. The impression of lush, curvy warmth lingered in inconvenient places.
A few sprints up the staircase weren’t enough. He needed to run tomorrow. Far, and hard. He needed to hit and lift things, too. Many times.
“I was just dashing down to the drawing room,” he said.
“Then you were dashing in the wrong direction.”
Rafe shrugged. “This place is a maze. And you’re supposed to be downstairs with your sisters, making the guest list.”
“I slipped away. You seemed . . . agitated when you left dinner. I wanted to make certain you were well.”
He couldn’t believe it. After all her brother-in-law’s snide remarks at the dinner table, she was concerned about Rafe’s feelings?
She touched his arm. “You seemed uneasy through the whole meal, actually. Is there anything you need?”
God. There were a great many things he needed, and a full half of them were squeezed in that gesture alone. He told himself not to make too much of her kindness. She’d been groomed to be the consummate hostess, always thinking of her guests’ comfort.
“Get married,” he said. “Then I’ll feel fine.”
They turned and began walking down the corridor together.