Even in his imagination, he just didn’t have it in him to bed another woman. Not today.
Probably not for a long, long while.
“This is stupid,” he said. “I’m telling you, I can’t lie.”
“You can. You just need practice. And you’re about to get an excellent chance,” Bruiser muttered. “Right about . . .”
“Oh, gracious!” someone close—and female—shrieked.
“Now,” Bruiser finished.
Rafe pulled up short, chest heaving. Clio’s lady’s maid—Anna, was it?—stood before them in the center of the path. No doubt wondering why the hell a sweaty, breathless man was running around the castle wall while carrying another grown man on his back.
Her hands fluttered. “I’m so sorry to have interrupted your . . . this.”
“There’s a reasonable explanation, never fear,” Bruiser said. “Lord Rafe had to carry me. I have a condition.”
You most certainly do, Rafe thought.
“A condition?” Her eyebrows crinkled together, and Rafe could all but see little cogs turning behind them. “Is it . . .” She lowered her voice. “Is it serious?”
“Sadly, yes. Possibly fatal.”
She covered her gasp with both hands. Because, apparently, one hand wouldn’t have been dramatic enough. “No. But surely something can be done. What is it?”
“I don’t know. I was unconscious when the doctor saw me. Lord Rafe can explain it better.” Bruiser nudged him in the ribs. “Go on, then. Tell her the whole story of my malady. In detail. With all the particulars. What did that German doctor call it?”
Rafe gave her a single, unembroidered word. “Syphilis.”
The lady’s maid turned a pale shade of green. She began backing away in small steps. “I just came to say Miss Whitmore is looking for you, my lord.”
With that, she dropped a frantic curtsy and fled.
The moment she was out of sight, Bruiser tweaked his ear. “You bloody jackass.”
“What are you complaining about? I lied. She believed me.”
“I’ll get you for this.” He began kicking at Rafe’s ribs.
Rafe turned his back to the wall and crushed the man against it.
“My pocket,” Bruiser squeaked. “Mind the quizzing glass.”
“Fuck the quizzing glass.” Rafe let him fall to the ground in a heap. “And to hell with embroidery. I don’t need to lie to Clio. She has enough honest reasons to marry Piers. He’s a bloody marquess with pots of money, and he’s a decent, honorable man. She can’t possibly do better.”
And Rafe was determined that she would have the best.
“What about you?” Bruiser asked.
“What about me?”
Bruiser hauled himself off the ground, clapped the dust from his trousers, and put his hands on Rafe’s shoulders. “Your future is on the line here. I can go out and find another fighter, but you are all you’ve got. And you’ve fought enough bouts that you know by now, if you’re to have any chance at besting Dubose, you have to want it. You have to want it more than you want anything in this world.”
Rafe closed his eyes and saw himself on the ground after fighting Dubose. Eyes stinging, head thick. His vision blurred by sweat and blood. The crowd around him chanting and calling as the umpire counted away the last moments of his reign as champion.
Prizefighting had been his life, his salvation. He’d worked too hard, for too long to let that be the way he exited the sport.
“I want to win,” he said. “I need to win.”
“Then this entire situation with Clio is a distraction. What are we even doing here, Rafe? If you’re serious about settling matters, I only see two alternatives. Lie, and tell her Piers is in love with her. Or be honest, and confess that you are.”
“What?” Rafe recoiled, as if he’d been dealt a body blow out of nowhere.
In love with Clio?
No. He couldn’t be.
He liked Clio. He admired her. And there was no denying that he desired her, to a dangerous degree. His fascination with her had outlasted his interest in just about anything or anyone, save prizefighting.
But nothing could ever come from it. Rafe was just a bit of excitement to her, and his touch could only mean ruin for Clio. He’d made his reputation, and now he had to live with it. Most dangerous of all, she had a way of destroying his hard-earned control.
If he cared for her at all, he would stay far away.
“I don’t know where you got such an idea,” he told Bruiser. “That’s absurd. She’s . . . And we. . . .” He gestured uselessly. “I’m not in love with her.”
Bruiser rolled his eyes. “You’re right. You are bollocks at lying. Let’s just go inside.”
Chapter Fifteen
In the library a half hour later, Rafe stared longingly at the crystal brandy decanter. He could have used a stiff drink right now. But whatever it was Clio wanted to discuss, he needed to keep his head clear.
“I’ve been looking all over. There you are.”
And there Clio was, standing in the doorway. Muddling his thoughts all over again.
Damnation. Rafe had been counting on having some warning. A bit more time to compose himself before he saw her. As it was, he felt he’d been thrown unawares into a pool of shimmering silk and luminous beauty.
It was swim or drown, and he was breathless. Flailing.
“I . . .”
She’d been so soft and warm in his hands.
Sweet heaven, the taste of her.
“Ahem.” Bruiser cleared his throat. Pointedly. He was already standing.
After a moment’s lapse, Rafe shot to his feet, too. Christ, was he so far removed from his upbringing that he’d forgotten to stand when a lady entered the room?
Even once he’d risen from the chair, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They kept wanting to reach in her direction.
He crossed his arms and tucked them close. He had to get hold of himself.
He said, “You were looking for me.”
“Yes.” She gestured with an envelope. “For you both, actually. We’ve been invited to a ball tomorrow. The Penningtons have an estate near Tunbridge. It’s only a few hours’ drive. Daphne’s keen on attending, and even Phoebe expressed an interest. Will you join us?”
“Jolly good,” Bruiser said, in that affected toffish accent. “But of course we shall.”
“No.” Rafe glanced at him. “We shan’t.”