“A parlor game?” Clio chanced a look in Rafe’s direction. The pained expression on his face was clear. He’d rather eat slugs than play parlor games. “Parlor games sound delightful.”
“Oh, I adore parlor games,” said Daphne. “They’re all so perfectly wicked. If they don’t have kissing, there’s blindfolded groping, or sitting on one another’s lap.”
“I was thinking of one particular parlor game. I learned it during my time on the Continent,” Montague said.
“A Continental parlor game?” Daphne asked. “This sounds promising. Does it involve groping?”
“No, Lady Cambourne. But I suspect you’ll enjoy it anyway.” He smiled. “We take turns, and each player makes three statements. Two must be true, and one must be a falsehood. The others have to guess which of the three statements is the lie.”
Daphne was quick to cut straws. When they were passed around, Rafe declined. Clio ended up with the shortest.
“But that will be too easy,” Daphne complained. “We’ve known Clio all her life, and she hasn’t any secrets.”
“Hasn’t she?” Reclining in the chair, Montague propped his left boot on his right knee. “I don’t know, Lady Cambourne. I have a suspicion Miss Whitmore just might be full of secrets.”
Clio said, “As a matter of fact, I am.”
At this, Rafe threw her a warning look. Her heartbeat accelerated.
Impossible man. Was he worried she’d announce her plans to break the engagement? Or perhaps he worried that she would confess their passionate embrace?
It would serve him right if she did either one.
But Clio was tired of thinking about Rafe and Piers. For once, she was ready to talk about herself. “Here are my three statements. First, my favorite color is green.”
Daphne groaned. “Make it a little less obvious.”
“Second,” Clio forged on, “I am planning to build a brewery here at Twill Castle. And third . . .” She swept a glance around the room. “I have never been kissed.”
She folded her hands and waited for their reaction.
The room lapsed into stunned silence. Daphne, Teddy . . . even Phoebe . . . They weren’t merely surprised. They all looked positively aghast. Was the idea of a brewery truly that upsetting to them?
Teddy shook his head gravely. “That’s . . . well, curse it. I don’t know what to say to that. Except that I’m dashed sorry.”
“Oh, darling.” Daphne rose from her chair and came to sit beside Clio on the divan. She put a hand on Clio’s knee. “He’s never kissed you? In all these years, not once?”
Clio inhaled slowly. It was a sad comment on her life that her nearest family believed this to be the most likely truth.
“I suppose we all knew it wasn’t a love match,” Daphne said. “But I thought surely you two shared some fondness for each other by now.”
“He won’t get out of it.” Teddy roused himself from his chair. “We won’t allow him to cry off, no matter how he tries to weasel his way out of this engagement. After eight years, the man owes you a wedding.”
“Wait,” Clio said. “You’re jumping to conclusions. How do you know the kissing one isn’t the falsehood?”
“Because it’s obvious,” Daphne said. “Everyone knows your favorite color is green. So that’s ruled out. And a brewery, really? That can’t be true. Of all the outlandish ideas.”
“What’s so outlandish about it? The estate’s resources need to be used, or the local community will suffer. Don’t you think I could do it?”
“She could do it,” Rafe said.
Clio turned to look at him, surprised. She didn’t think he’d been paying attention.
“She could do it,” he repeated, leaning one shoulder against the paneled wall. “This region is ideal for beer-making. Miss Whitmore has the funds, the land, the wits. With the right help, she could make a go of it.”
“Perhaps she could,” Teddy agreed. “But her intended wouldn’t approve. Are we to believe the pubs and taverns will all be serving Lady Granville’s Ale?” He chuckled. “Your brother wouldn’t allow such a thing.”
“You’re right,” Clio said, gathering her courage. “I don’t imagine Piers would allow it. But that’s just it, you see. I’m not going to ma—”
“You’re not going to open a brewery. Of course not. How absurd.” Daphne clapped her hands. “Well, that settles Clio’s turn. Who is next?”
“Wait,” Rafe interjected, in a tone that would not be disobeyed. His eyes flashed. “Clio’s turn isn’t over. You have it wrong, Lady Cambourne. You have it entirely wrong.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Miss Whitmore has indeed been kissed,” Rafe said. “I’m certain of it.”
“But how can you possibly know?” Daphne asked.
Clio’s breath caught. Did she want Rafe to answer that question honestly? Perhaps she did. But even though she’d started this game, the decision was out of her control.
He gestured in anger. “Because I was there.”
Damnation.
Rafe hadn’t meant to say that. The words had just fired out of him, like a wild, reckless punch he should have checked.
Everyone stared at him. Including Clio, he assumed, but he didn’t dare glance her way to confirm it.
“Lord Rafe, are you telling us you witnessed this kiss with your own eyes?” Daphne didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.
“No,” he replied honestly.
He hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes. What kind of jackass kissed with his eyes open?
He’d witnessed it with his own lips.
But telling that truth wouldn’t do his cause any favors.
“Then I shall stand by my answer,” Daphne said. “Now whose turn is next?”
“Mine,” Rafe said.
“Your turn?” Clio asked. “I thought you weren’t playing.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Afraid you’ll have to wait for the next round, Brandon,” Sir Teddy Cambourne said. “My lady here cut straws and passed them around. That part’s been done. You can’t have a turn if you don’t have a straw.”
Rafe threw the man a look. A look with the force of a fist. “Really?”
Cambourne had nothing further to say. Neither did anyone else.