Oh, sweet mercy. He was an excellent hugger. A true champion.
She didn’t want to ever let go.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” she whispered. “You worked hard to bring all those lovely things from London, and I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin it.”
“Then all that excitement with the dog. I know you were concerned. It’s been a long, difficult day.”
It had been a long, difficult year for him. He’d lost his father and his championship, both within the space of a week.
He could pretend all he liked that he wasn’t grieving. Clio knew better. She remembered the way he’d looked when she called at Granville House shortly after the marquess’s death. His face had worn the marks of a brutal beating, but his eyes showed that his true pain was deep inside. She wished she’d had the courage to hug him then.
Tonight, she was making up for the oversight.
“Why would you think you don’t deserve to be happy, Rafe?”
He paused before answering. “It wouldn’t be in you to understand. I’m bad at being good, and only good at being bad. You don’t know who I am, what I’ve done. You don’t know the half.”
“Perhaps not. But I know what you deserve for your actions today.” Stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. “That’s for the music.”
Ducking her head, she kissed the underside of his jaw, where his pulse beat hard and fast. A day’s growth of whiskers scraped against her skin. “That’s for the flowers.”
“Stop.”
“This is for the cake.”
She pressed her lips to the notch at the base of his throat. Then she held the kiss for long moments, breathing in the scent and heat of him.
A tortured growl rose in his chest. He probably meant it as a warning, but Clio was emboldened by the sound.
She loved knowing she had this effect on him. This was Rafe Brandon, one of the fiercest, strongest, most fearsome men in England. And she, Miss Clio Whitmore, had him weak in the knees.
When she lifted her head, she found him staring down at her. His eyes were hazy with desire. “You need to leave this room. At once.”
Clio didn’t try to argue with him.
But neither did she move to leave.
She sensed a battle going on within him—desire and the simple need for closeness, warring with his ambition and loyalty. It was a true struggle, and as a spectator, she was breathless. Riveted. Tense with anticipation, waiting to see which side would win.
His hands lay flat on the small of her back.
And then . . . slowly . . . she felt his fingers gathering the fabric of her frock, drawing it into tight fists. He flexed his arms and pulled her close, sweeping her heels off the floor. Her breasts crushed against the solid wall of his chest, and a ridge of pure male heat pulsed against her belly.
His breathing was rough. His lips, so close to hers.
Yes.
Lord, yes. This was how it felt to want, and be wanted.
And now that she’d known the sensation, he couldn’t expect her to settle for anything less. She didn’t want a marriage that was tame and polite. She wanted wild. She wanted wrong.
She wanted him.
Clio reached for fistfuls of his shirt, forbidding him to let her go. “Rafe.”
The bedchamber door swung inward.
“Hullo.”
Rafe, to his credit, only clutched her tighter. “Who’s there? Declare yourself.”
Oh, no.
Sir Teddy Cambourne stood in the doorway.
And he did not look pleased.
Chapter Ten
Hallelujah.
That was Rafe’s first, instinctive reaction when the door opened to reveal the stern countenance of Sir Teddy Cambourne.
Excellent. Perfect. Thank God.
The struggle was over. The jig was up. He’d been caught with his fists twisted in the back of Clio’s frock, pulling his brother’s intended bride tight against the rudeness of his hardening cock . . . and that was that.
Now he’d be called out for the villain he was. He could give up the entire wedding–planning charade. He’d allow Sir Teddy to take a shot at him in the first mists of dawn . . . and whether he was killed, maimed, or merely disgraced, he’d slink away. Disappear from Clio and Piers’s future happiness, forever.
Good.
But Cambourne didn’t seem to have read the script. He didn’t shout or rage, didn’t denounce him as a villain or a blackguard. He didn’t demand Rafe unhand his sister-in-law and name his second for a duel.
He merely stood there, wearing only his nightshirt and a blank expression, clutching a pair of black Hessians in his hands.
He held the boots out to Rafe. “Take these.”
Rafe just stared at the man. Was this some part of the dueling code he’d never learned? He thought the slap of a glove was the usual way of calling a man out, but perhaps there was a new fashion: handing him boots.
Then, from down the hall, he heard Daphne calling, “Teddy? Teddy where have you got to now?”
The man didn’t even turn at the sound of his wife’s voice. He just pressed the boots toward Rafe again. “They need to be polished by tomorrow morning. Mummy’s taking me to see a menagerie.”
“Just take them,” Clio whispered. “He’s walking in his sleep. He does this sometimes.”
Rafe took the boots.
Clio put her hands on Teddy’s shoulders and turned him back toward the doorway. “There now. That’s done. You can go back to bed.”
“I hope they have tigers. Mummy says there will be tigers.”
“Well, now. Won’t that be fine.”
He shuffled numbly toward the doorway. “Tigers are stripey. They say grrrrrowr.”
Rafe choked back a laugh.
Down the corridor, Daphne’s cries were growing increasingly frantic. “Teddy! Teddy, where are you?”
“He’s here!” Clio called. “He’s fine.” To Rafe, she whispered, “Don’t tell my sister about the menagerie. She’ll be embarrassed enough as it is.”
They met with Daphne in the corridor. “Oh, thank heaven.” She flung her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed his cheek.
Cambourne didn’t seem to notice.
Phoebe had come out of her room, too, wrapped in a dressing gown and holding a book in one hand. “It’s not surprising. We should have expected it. He’s in a new place.”
Clio nodded. “But we must find some way to keep him in his room. As big and ranging as this castle is, it could be dangerous for him to go wandering.”