“I don’t, really. It’s just . . . he’s not mine. He’s Piers’s dog. I can’t let something go wrong on my watch. I’ve had no choice but to take responsibility for the marquessate in his absence. But when my brother comes home, I mean to hand over everything in the same condition I received it. Then I’m done.”
Clio slowed to a halt in the center of the corridor. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh my Lord.”
Rafe stopped, too. “What? What is it?”
“I’m the dog.”
“What?”
“That’s it.” She turned to him. “I’m the dog. That’s why you’ve gone to all this trouble. It’s why you’re so bent on keeping me engaged. In your mind, I’m like the dog. I belong to Piers, and you’re not too attached to me—but you don’t want something to go wrong on your watch. You need to hand me over in the condition you received me.”
He opened his mouth to reply—then hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.
Clio didn’t need any words. That moment’s pause told her everything she needed to know.
She’d pegged it absolutely right.
She was the dog.
She stormed ahead, not caring if she left him alone in the dark. He was welcome to wander these corridors all night.
He caught up to her, whipping her around by the arm. “Clio, wait.”
She clenched her free hand into a fist. How she despised those words. They were the sum of her life, those two words: Clio, wait.
“You’re misunderstanding me,” he said.
“I don’t think I’m misunderstanding anything.”
“You are not the dog.”
“I might as well be. I’m a faithful, drooling little thing you want to keep alive, so Piers can come home and pat me on the head. Toss me a biscuit, perhaps.”
She started to growl in frustration, but held herself back. Considering the circumstances.
“Clio, Clio. You are so . . . so much more.”
“So much more than a dog. A high compliment. Thank you.”
“Will you stop going on about the dog?” He covered his eyes with one hand. “It’s late, and I’m not saying things right. But if you’ve somehow formed the impression that I don’t see you as a beautiful, intelligent, remarkable woman, we need to clear that up immed—”
She hooted with laughter. “Please. Just stop. We both know your brother could have had dozens of ladies more elegant, more accomplished. And as for you . . . well, you’ve actually had them.”
“My history is irrelevant. Yes, perhaps Piers could have married a lady more elegant or more accomplished. But he could never find one better. You don’t know, Clio. People toss around the words ‘loyal’ and ‘kindhearted’ as though they’re common qualities. But they aren’t. They’re so rare. A man could search the world and not find another you.”
She shook her head, refusing to look him in the eye. “I can’t listen to this anymore. You’re unbelievably selfish. You don’t admire me. You would marry me to a man I don’t love, and who doesn’t love me, just to satisfy your own convenience.”
“My convenience?”
He stepped back and took a glance down the corridor in either direction before steering her into his bedchamber and closing the door behind them. Then he removed the candlestick from her hand, placed it on a narrow side table, and braced his hands on her shoulders, holding her still.
His voice lowered to a raw whisper. “You think this is convenient for me? Planning your wedding to another man, then preparing to walk away forever? Do you think I’m not going to be tortured, thinking of you in all the years and decades to come? Imagining you bearing his children, hosting his parties, sharing those countless little moments happy couples never think to catalog, but the rest of us notice and envy like mad?”
Good heavens. What was he saying?
“It’s not going to be convenient for me,” he said. “It’s going to be hell.”
“But if you feel that way, then why . . . ?”
“I’m the Devil’s Own, remember? I’ve earned my place in hell. You deserve better.” His hands soothed up and down her arms. “You should have the best. Not only the best flowers, the best cake, the best gown, the best wedding . . . but the best possible life, with the best possible man. You deserve all those things. And just for the way I’m touching you now, I deserve to face a pistol at dawn.”
She shook her head. Who was this perfect, virtuous woman he was describing? Not Clio, surely. Every time he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back. And she’d spent hours dreaming of just this moment. Being alone with him, at night. In his bedchamber. With his big, capable hands all over her body.
Perhaps he didn’t understand that.
Well, there was no better time to let him know.
She stepped toward him, placing her hands flat against the broad expanse of his chest.
He sucked in his breath. “What are you doing?”
“Touching you.” She stroked her palms over the softened linen of his shirt and the hard, sculpted wonder of his torso beneath.
“Clio . . .” His voice was strangled. “I can’t do this.”
“You’re not. You’re not doing anything. This time, I’m doing it all.”
“For the love of God, why?”
“Because this is something I’ve wanted for the longest time.”
She stretched her arms around him, placing her hands flat on his back, and leaned forward until her cheek settled against his galloping heartbeat. And then she squeezed him tight.
“Relax, Rafe. It’s only a hug.” She nuzzled into his shirtfront, settling in. “When’s the last time you had a proper one?”
“I . . .” He exhaled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I can’t even recall.”
Neither could Clio. She’d been born into a loving family, but it was the wrong family for hugs. Daphne was a perfunctory hugger—loose embrace, a few brisk pats on the back, and done. Phoebe didn’t like to be hugged at all.
But there were few things Clio loved more in life than a tight, affectionate embrace. She was good at them, too. She smoothed her palms up and down his back, coaxing the tension from his muscles.
“You could hug me back,” she said.
At last, he surrendered to it, wreathing his strong arms about her waist and resting his chin on her head. His thumb traced comforting circles on her back, and he swayed her gently back and forth.