He stood unmoved. “The week.”
“What?”
“I want a full week of bridal compliance. You’ll make lists and menus. You’ll choose flowers. You’ll be fitted for gowns. No grousing, no evading.”
“Let’s say I agree to this plan. I allow you to stay for a week. I keep an open mind about marriage. You promise to keep an open mind about me. If at the end of the week, I still wish to break the engagement . . . what then? Will you sign the dissolution papers?”
He inhaled slowly. He was putting a lot of faith in the power of lace, silk, and Bruiser’s competence, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. The preparations couldn’t sway her if she didn’t take part.
“Very well,” he said. “It’s a bargain.”
“Shake hands on it?”
He clasped her small hand in his and pumped it once.
She squeezed his fingers tight and didn’t let go. “Excellent. Now come along. I’ve been dying to show someone around this castle. We’ll see how much trouble we can find on our way downstairs.”
As she led him through the opposite end of the gallery, a sense of foreboding gathered in Rafe’s chest. Above all things, he had a talent for finding trouble.
And a week suddenly seemed like a dangerously long time.
Clio swelled with a modest amount of confidence as she tugged him out of the gallery and down the spiraling flights of stairs.
A quarter hour would be more than enough time to prove this place wasn’t just another heap of stones littering the English countryside.
Of course, then came the trickier part—making Rafe see what Twill Castle meant to her.
“Quickly,” she whispered, peeking into the corridor to make certain no one observed them. “This way.”
“But—”
“Hurry.”
As they ducked into a smaller, darker stairwell, Clio clutched his hand tight and tried to ignore the stupid thrill that ran through her every time her skin met his.
Ridiculous, really. Yes, he was an infamous rake. But they’d known each other since childhood, and she’d been engaged to his brother for almost a decade. There wasn’t anything forbidden about taking the man’s hand.
Nevertheless, her heartbeat drummed in her chest as she drew him down the stairs. At the bottom, they were greeted by cold, clammy darkness. The only illumination was the last lingering bit of twilight struggling through a ceiling grate.
“See?” She lowered her voice as they crept through the cavernous space. “This castle has dungeons.”
“These aren’t dungeons.”
“They are so dungeons.”
“They’re far too big for dungeons. These were clearly cellars.”
She went to a hook where a lamp was hung and gathered a flint from the nearby tinderbox.
“Stop ruining the fun.” She struck the flint. Nothing. “Battles were fought in this place. It’s over four hundred years old. The very air is thick with history. For centuries, people have lived and loved and died here. Just think of it.”
“Here’s what I think. You’ve been reading too many of those knights-and-ladies stories in the Gentleman’s Review. People have lived and loved and died everywhere. And for every crusading knight who won a tournament for his lady in this castle, I promise you—there were a hundred men who spent a solid decade scratching themselves and having pissing contests from the ramparts.”
She cringed and tried the flint again. “Men are disgusting.”
“Yes,” he said proudly. “We are. But we’re useful, on occasion. Give that here.”
He took the flint from her hands and struck it. The sparks didn’t dare disobey. Holding that warm, nascent glow cupped in his powerful hands, he could have been Prometheus, as painted by a Florentine master. The reddish gold light flashed over the strong planes of his brow and jaw, then lingered on the rugged slope of his oft-broken nose.
“Well, I’m not a man,” Clio said, feeling keenly aware of her womanliness. “I’m not going to spend a decade pissing from the ramparts. I’m going to do something with this castle.”
“Let me guess.” He lit the lamp, then whipped the straw, putting out the flame. “You want to open a school for foundlings.”
“That’s a lovely thought. But no. If I’m to maintain this place, it needs to generate income. No offense to the poor dears, but there isn’t much money in orphans.”
Clio took the lamp, went to the far wall, and counted off the stones.
One, two, three, four . . .
“Here’s what I brought you down to see.”
If this didn’t impress him, she didn’t know what could.
She pushed hard on the fifth stone. An entire section of the wall swung outward.
“Behold,” she declared. “A secret passage.”
He took the lamp from her and thrust it into the darkened tunnel, peering hard into the gloom. When he whistled, the whistle echoed back.
“Very well,” he said. “One point to you. That’s capital.”
At last. Clio warmed with satisfaction. She wanted him to appreciate the history and see the potential of this place, but there was more to it than that. She wanted him to enjoy this castle, the way she enjoyed it.
She thought of his spartan warehouse, with its humble cot and sawdust floor. All those slimy raw eggs.
He needed more enjoyment in his life. A home and warm comforts and amusements that didn’t end in bloodshed. To live like a human rather than a beast bred for fighting.
“So where does this secret passage lead?” he asked.
“Go through it and find out.” She arched a brow. “Unless you’re frightened.”
He pulled himself to full height. “I defended the title of Britain’s heavyweight champion for four years. If there’s anything living in that passage, it should be frightened.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose even the spiders will scatter at their first sight of the Devil’s Own.”
He looked at her, surprised. “Where’d you hear that name?”
“Oh, I know all the things they call you. Brawlin’ Brandon. Lord of Ruin. The Devil’s Own.”
“You’ve been following my career,” he said. “What business does a proper, well-bred young lady have, following the world of illegal prizefighting?”
She was suddenly, unaccountably nervous. “It’s not that I follow you. I follow the newspapers. You’re often in them.”