He pushed the sherry toward her. “That’s yours. You look like you could use it.”
Clio stared at the glass as waves of nausea pitched her stomach to and fro. “Thank you.”
“It’s the best I can do. As you can see, I’m not set up to receive social calls.”
“I won’t take much of your time, I promise. I only stopped by to—”
“Extend a wedding invitation. I’ll send my regrets.”
“What? No. I mean . . . I gather you’ve heard that Lord Granville is finally returning from Vienna.”
“I heard. And Piers has given you permission to plan the most lavish wedding imaginable. I signed off on the accounts myself.”
“Yes, well. About those signatures . . .” Clio twisted the papers rolled in her hand.
He walked away from the table. “This will have to be quick. I can’t be wasting time on chatter.”
He stopped beneath a bar hanging parallel to the floor some three feet over his head. In a burst of quickness, he jumped to grab it. Then he began to lift himself by means of flexing his arms.
Again, then again.
“Go on,” he said, clearing the bar with his chin for the fourth time. “I can talk while I do this.”
Perhaps he could, but Clio was finding it difficult. She wasn’t accustomed to carrying on a conversation with a barely dressed man engaged in such . . . muscular exercise. Awareness hummed in her veins.
She picked up the tumbler of sherry and took a cautious swallow.
It helped.
“I wouldn’t expect you to have heard, but my Uncle Humphrey died a few months ago.” She waved off the condolences before he could offer them. “It wasn’t a shock. He was very old. But the dear old thing left me a bequest in his will. A castle.”
“A castle?” He grunted as he cleared the bar again. Then he paused there, muscles tensed with effort. “Some crumbling pile on the moors with a mountain of unpaid taxes, I suspect.”
“No, actually. It’s situated in Kent and quite lovely. It was one of his personal properties. He was the Earl of Lynforth, if you recall.”
Good heavens, she was babbling. Pull yourself together, Clio.
“Ideal for a wedding, then.” His voice tightened with exertion.
“I suppose it could be. For someone. But I’m on my way there today, and I stopped by to—”
“Inform me.” Lift.
“Yes, and also—”
“To ask for money.” Lift. “I just told you, you’re free to spend as much on the wedding as you wish. Send the bills to my brother’s men of business.”
Clio squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Lord Rafe, please. Would you kindly stop—”
“Finishing your sentences?”
She suppressed a little growl.
He paused midlift. “Don’t try to tell me I got that one wrong.”
She couldn’t tell him that. Not honestly. That was the most galling part.
He went on, “As I said . . . I’m training.” Each phrase was punctuated by another lift. “It’s what prizefighters do. We concentrate.” Lift. “Anticipate.” Lift. “React. If it bothers you, try being less predictable.”
“I’m calling it off,” she blurted out. “The wedding, the engagement. Everything. I’m calling it all off.”
He dropped to the floor.
The air prickled around them.
And his dark expression told Clio, in no uncertain terms, he hadn’t predicted that.
Rafe stared at her.
This was not how his month was supposed to be going. He’d holed himself away in this storehouse to train for his comeback. When he met Jack Dubose for the second time, it would be the biggest bout of his life and the largest purse ever offered in English history. To prepare, he needed intensive physical conditioning, undisturbed sleep, nourishing food . . .
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.”