He was very near her now. Near enough that when he dug his fork into the slice of cake, she could smell the fragrance of lemon and hear the tiny ping of silver tines striking china.
He gathered a forkful and held it just inches from her lips.
“You,” he said, “make cake sounds.”
“Cake sounds?” she echoed. “What on earth are ‘cake sounds’?”
“Just what they’re described to be. When you eat cake, you make sounds.”
No, she didn’t. Did she?
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Sighs. Gasps. Breathy little moans. You . . . love . . . cake. Or at least you did, once. I know they’ve forced you to spend the past decade all pinned and buttoned and corseted and restrained. But I know”—he waved the fork before her—“you want this.”
A flush crept up her throat. “Even if I do make ‘cake sounds’—and I am not admitting that I do—it is most ungentlemanly of you to take notice of them.”
“I’m sure it is. But I’m not known for my gentlemanly behavior.”
No, he wasn’t. Rafe Brandon was a black sheep. A hotheaded rebel. The Devil’s Own. He was known throughout England for being quick, crude, strong, dangerous.
And tempting. Devilishly, irresistibly tempting.
She swallowed. Not audibly, she hoped. “I don’t make cake sounds. Not anymore.”
“Then have a bite and prove me wrong.” He lifted the fork again. When she hesitated, he said, “It’s just one tiny little bite of cake. What are you afraid of?”
You. Me. Cake. Piers. Marriage. Spiders.
Everything.
“Nothing,” she lied.
There was no use in explaining it. He had no idea what he was asking of her. He couldn’t possibly understand.
“Then have a piece.”
“You won’t give up on this, will you?”
He shook his head no.
“Very well.” She took the fork from his hand and stuffed the bite of cake in her mouth.
Chew, she told herself. It’s only one bite. Chew, swallow, be done with it.
But . . .
But the man was right, drat him. She did love cake. And this wasn’t mere cake, it was . . . bliss. Like a wisp of sugary, velvety cloud on her tongue, melting into a lemon mist that teased and delighted.
She couldn’t help it. As she swallowed, a helpless moan of pleasure rose in the back of her throat. “Mmm.”
“What did I tell you? You make cake sounds.”
Clearing the sweetness from her throat, she shook her head in protest. “That’s not fair! That’s not mere cake, it’s . . . It’s sin on a plate. Whoever baked it has surely bargained with the Devil.”
Rafe chuckled.
“I mean it. No one could taste this cake and fail to make cake sounds. You try it. You’ll see.”
“No rich foods or sweetmeats for me. Not when I’m training.” He set the slice aside and surveyed the others. “Which next?”
Oh, no. He wouldn’t get out of it so easily. She picked up the lemon cake and gathered a bite with the fork, determined to avenge herself. “Taste the cake.”
She moved closer, and he took a step in retreat. At last, she had him on the defensive.
She held out the fork and lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, doing her best imitation of Eve in the garden of Eden. Offering Adam not an apple, but a slice of sinful lemon cake.
“It’s just one . . . tiny . . . little . . . bite of cake.” She pursed her lips in a pout. “What are you afraid of, Rafe?”
His green eyes locked with hers.
She pushed the fork toward his mouth, trying to sneak the bite between his lips. He ducked his head. When she tried again, he spun away, laughing.
“Oh, you.”
She lunged a third time, but his reflexes were too quick for her—as always. He not only dodged the forkful of cake, but he caught her wrist, forbidding her to strike again.
“You truly think you can land a blow?” he asked. “On me? Impossible. I was the heavyweight champion of England, sweetheart.”
“And I was the terror of the schoolroom.” Clio reached wildly toward the table with her left hand. She couldn’t manage to grasp a fork, so she dug her bare fingers into the nearest cake—a chocolate one—and gathered a handful. “Eat the cake, drat you!”
He dodged her swipe, then released her and dashed to the other side of the table. They were both breathless and laughing now, facing off from opposite sides of the cake buffet. If she sprang to the right, he countered with a move to the left.
He grinned at her frustrated efforts to catch him. “It’s like I told you. Concentrate. Anticipate. React.”
“React to this.” She flung her handful of cake at him.
Curse the man, he ducked. Then he turned to regard the splattered fireworks of icing on the wall and whistled low, amused. “Why, Miss Whitmore. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Watch me do it again.” She dove for an almond torte. It glanced off his shoulder, and she gave a cheer. “Aha! First blood.”
“That’s it,” he said, reaching into a strawberry-studded cake for some ammunition of his own. “This is happening. This is real now.”
She dove to the side, but he was too quick for her. Icing splattered her hair and face, like sugary shrapnel.
Time to reload.
Clio’s eye landed on a dense, bomb-shaped plum cake in the center of the table. Now that would make an excellent projectile. No coming apart in the air. There was only one problem.
Rafe had his eye on it, too.
His gaze lifted from the plum cake and locked with hers. He smiled. “It’s mine.”
Not if I get there first.
They lunged for it at the same time. Rafe was first to grab the plate, but Clio thrust her hand straight into the center of the cake. She flexed her fingers and pulled, as if to lift the cake itself from the plate.
Instead, she doubled over and cried out in pain.
The plate clattered to the floor.
Chapter Nine
When Clio doubled over, Rafe’s heart kicked him in the ribs.
“Jesus.” He slammed what remained of the plum cake to the floor and vaulted over the table. “Clio, what is it? Are you injured?”
She nodded, clutching her right hand. “It’s . . . It’s my hand. I think my finger . . . Oh, it hurts.”
Goddamn it. Goddamn him.
What could have been in that cake? A fork? A knife?
“Did you cut yourself? Let me see it. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.” He reached for her hand, drawing it toward him.