Rafe lowered his head and threw a barrage of jabs at the punching bag. This time, he wasn’t putting on a display. His brain worked better when his body was in motion. Fighting brought him to his sharpest focus, and he needed that now.
Why the hell would Clio want to break this engagement? She was a society debutante, raised for advantageous marriage the way thoroughbred horses were bred to race. A lavish wedding to a wealthy, handsome marquess should be her fondest dream.
“You won’t find a better prospect,” he said.
“I know.”
“And you must want to get married. What else could you hope to do with your life?”
She laughed into her sherry. “What else, indeed. It’s not as though we ladies are allowed to have interests or pursuits of our own.”
“Exactly. Unless . . .” He held his punch. “Unless there’s someone else.”
She was quiet for a moment. “There’s no one else.”
“Then it’s the anticipation getting to you. Just a case of cold feet.”
“It’s not that I’m a nervous bride, either. I simply don’t wish to marry a man who doesn’t want to marry me.”
“Why would you think he doesn’t want to marry you?” He threw a right hook at the bag, then followed it with a left.
“Because I’ve looked at the calendar. Eight years have passed since he proposed. If you truly wanted a woman, would you wait that long to make her your own?”
He let his fists fall to his sides and turned to her, breathing hard. His lungs filled with the scent of violets. Damn, she even smelled sweet.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But,” he continued, “I’m an impulsive bastard. This is about Piers. He’s the loyal, honorable son.”
Her eyebrow made the slightest quirk. “If you believe the scandal sheets, he has a mistress and four children tucked away somewhere.”
“I don’t read the scandal sheets.”
“Perhaps you should. You’re often in them.”
He didn’t doubt it. Rafe knew the vile things that were said about him, and he took every opportunity to encourage the gossip. Reputation didn’t win fights, but it drew crowds and lined pockets.
“It’s not as though Piers hasn’t had reasons for delaying. He’s an important man.” Rafe fought to keep a straight face. Listen to him, singing his brother’s praises. That didn’t happen often. It didn’t happen ever. “There was that post in India. Then the one in Antigua. He came home between assignments, but then there was some delay.”
She looked down. “I was ill.”
“Right. Then there was a war to settle, and another after that. Now that all these treaties in Vienna are hammered out, he’s on his way home.”
“It’s not that I begrudge his sense of duty,” she said. “Nor how essential he’s made himself to the Crown. But it’s become abundantly clear that I’m not essential to him.”
Rafe rubbed his face with both hands and growled into them.
“My solicitors told me I’d have a case for a breach of promise suit. But I didn’t want to embarrass him. Now that I have Twill Castle, I don’t require the security of marriage. A quiet dissolution is best for all concerned.”
“No. It’s not best. Not at all.”
Not best for Piers, not best for Clio.
And definitely not best for Rafe.
He’d put his prizefighting career on hold after his father’s death. He didn’t have a choice. With Piers out of the country, Rafe found himself, however unwillingly, at the helm of the Granville fortune.
He belonged in a boxing ring, not an office. He knew it, and so did the solicitors and stewards, who barely managed to veil their disdain. They came armed with folios and ledgers and a dozen matters for his attention, and before Rafe sorted his way through one issue, they were on to the next. Each meeting left him restless and simmering with resentment—as though he’d been sent down from Eton all over again.
Rafe could all but hear his father twisting in his grave, spitting worms and grinding out those same, familiar words.
No son of mine will remain an uneducated brute. No son of mine will disgrace this family’s legacy.
Rafe had always been a disappointment. He’d never been the son his father wanted. But he’d made his own life, earned his own title—not “lord,” but “champion.” As soon as Piers returned to England and married, he would be free to fight again and get that title back.
If Clio called off the wedding, however . . . ?
His globe-wandering brother might turn around and disappear for another eight years.
“Piers has likely been hoping for this outcome all along,” Clio said. “He wanted out of the engagement, but his honor wouldn’t permit him to ask. When he learns the dissolution is already done, I expect he’ll be relieved.”
“Piers will not be relieved. And I’m not going to let you do this.”
“I don’t wish to quarrel.” She rolled the papers and tapped the cylinder on its edge. “You have my apologies for the intrusion. I’ll take my leave now. And I’ll bring these papers with me to Kent. If you change your mind about signing them, I’ll be at Twill Castle. It’s near the village of Charingwood.”
“I won’t sign. And mark my words, you won’t ask him to sign it, either. When he comes back, you’ll know at once that the gossip was baseless. You’ll be reminded of the reasons why you consented to be his bride in the first place. And you will marry him.”
“No. I won’t.”
“Think of it. You’ll be a marchioness.”
“No,” she said. “I truly won’t.”
Her quiet, solemn tone unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Hell, his palms were even growing damp. It was as though he could feel his career—everything he’d worked for, and the only thing that made his life worth a damn—slipping from his grasp.
She moved to leave, and he lunged to catch her by the arm. “Clio, wait.”
“He doesn’t want me.” Her voice broke. “Can’t you understand that? Everyone knows. It took me too many years to see the truth. But I’m done waiting. He doesn’t want me, and I no longer want him. I have to protect my heart.”
Damn it all. So that’s what this was. He should have guessed. The reason for her sudden reluctance was as plain as the lion on the Granville crest.