“How’s that?”
“You told me I hadn’t walked in on a suicide. Now I’m not so sure. I know you weren’t planning to hang yourself, but going back to fighting . . . ? Isn’t it a slower route to the same end?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“I read the accounts of your fights, Rafe. And not just because I read the papers, and you happened to be in them. I sought them out. I read about all thirty-four rounds of your bout with Dubose. The magazines recounted it in such breathless detail. Every blow and bruise.”
“The reporters make it sound more dangerous than it is. It’s how they sell magazines. And it helps generate interest for the next fight.”
Clio’s concerns weren’t soothed. “I hate the way people speak about you. Even in that pub today, the way they all leapt to clear space and place wagers. As if you were an inhuman creature meant to bleed and suffer for their amusement, no better than a fighting cock or a baited bear. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No. I don’t fight for them. I fight for me.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because I’m good at it,” he said, sounding agitated now. “I am bloody great at it. And I was never good at anything. Because it’s the one place where I know that my success is mine, and my failure, too. In the ring, I might be facing an Irish dock laborer or an English tanner or an American freedman. When the bell rings, none of it matters worth a damn. It’s only me. My strength, my heart, my wits, my fists. Nothing I was given, nothing I took. I fight because it tells me who I am.”
“If you’re looking for someone to tell you who you are, I can do that.”
He shrugged her off.
“No, truly.”
She dashed in front of him and put a hand to his chest, holding him in place.
His heartbeat throbbed against her palm. Every beat pushed excitement through her veins.
“I can start by telling you you’re stubborn and impulsive and prideful. And generous and protective and passionate. In public, you ride like the devil and fill out a pair of buckskin breeches like pure liquid sin, but in private, you behave as though you’ve joined a monastic order. You’re kind to ugly dogs, and you’re patient with awkward sisters. Your kisses are sweet. And your life is worth something.” She fought back the emotion rising in her throat. “I’ll tell you who you are, Rafe. Anytime you find yourself in doubt. And I won’t even leave you bleeding.”
He glanced at the horizon. “Not outwardly, perhaps. There are places inside me you’re beating to a pulp.”
“Good.”
It was only fair. He was cutting her heart to ribbons, too.
“We should be going,” he said. “They’ll be waiting on us. You’re to be fitted for wedding gowns this afternoon.”
He still meant to put her through that? “I wish I’d drunk more beer.”
“Are you begging off?”
“Oh, no.” Clio smoothed the front of her frock. “I’m not giving you any excuse to back out of our agreement. Today, I’ll step into a few frilly gowns. Tomorrow, you let me off the leash.”
“For the last time,” he said, “you’re not the dog.”
She muttered under her breath, “Woof.”
Chapter Twelve
Come out already,” Daphne called. “It’s been ages.”
Rafe was impatient, too. He, Daphne, Teddy, Phoebe, Bruiser, and Ellingworth all sat in the drawing room. Waiting.
Clio was with the dressmakers in the adjoining chamber. Dressing.
That was the idea, anyhow. Supposedly, they were going to be treated to a viewing of three or four gowns, so that Clio might choose her favorite.
A half hour had passed, and she hadn’t appeared in even one. Had something gone wrong?’
He tapped one finger on the arm of his chair. Then he began to jostle his knee. Sitting like this was torture for him. Always had been. He didn’t know how “gentlemen of leisure” like Cambourne could stand passing whole days and months and years this way.
He stared at those doors hard enough to bore a hole through the oak.
Come out, damn it.
Eventually, Rafe couldn’t sit waiting anymore. He excused himself and went into the corridor, where he prowled the full length of the Savonnerie carpet. Back and forth, like a tethered beast.
This had to work. The gown fitting was the best chance of salvaging the engagement. The last chance, to wit.
Even an ill-mannered brute like Rafe knew that the gown was the most crucial part of this enterprise. He just hoped his trainer was right about the quality of the materials and workmanship. This would need to be a gown with silk so fine and lace so intricate that when Clio saw her reflection in the looking glass, she would want to never take it off.
And then she’d have to get married.
That, or become a batty old spinster who roamed her castle in a decaying wedding gown. Rafe didn’t think the latter would suit Clio, but he wasn’t going to mention the possibility, just in case.
Thump.
The sound drew him to a halt.
Strange. Perhaps the servants were moving things.
Or maybe the place was haunted. Any castle worth its parapets ought to have at least one ghost.
Then it happened again.
Thump.
Followed by a stifled cry of pain.
Both sounds were coming from behind a set of double doors. If he wasn’t mistaken, that would be the chamber designated as Clio’s dressing room.
He was at the door in seconds. “Miss Whitmore?” He pounded on the door. “Clio. Are you well?”
After endless moments, the door opened a fraction. He spied an inch-wide slice of Clio’s face through the gap. One blue eye and a quirk of pink lips.
“Can I help you, Rafe?”
“Yes, you can bloody well help me. You can tell me what the devil’s going on. What’s been taking so long, and what was that sound? Is someone moving the furnishings?”
“No, I . . .” He could tell she was struggling for breath, composing her words.
Then it was Clio’s shriek he’d heard. Her cheek was red, and her eyes—well, the one eye he could see—looked teary. Damn it.
He lowered his voice. “Tell me what’s happened. Now.”
“It’s nothing. I promise you.”
“Then open the door so I can see for myself.”
“Rafe, I’m fine. Please don’t mind me.”
“I mind you. You’ve been in there for ages. I heard you cry out. Your face is red. You’re scarcely able to speak. And there were thumps.”