That would be something.
“Surely there must be a flower or two here that appeals to you,” he said.
Was it her imagination, or did he sound anxious?
“I’m overwhelmed. They’re all so beautiful.” She walked through the room, touching petals here and there.
“Well, you can think on these, too.” He caught her arm again. “What’s in the next room can’t wait.”
“Did you say the next room? You can’t mean there’s more.”
“Come see.”
He led her to the connecting door on the opposite side of the room and opened it. They emerged into the formal dining room, and Clio was stopped cold by the sight that awaited them.
Cakes.
Cakes everywhere.
“You didn’t,” she breathed.
“I did,” he replied, shutting the door behind them.
The entire length of the dining table—and the castle’s dining table stretched to an impressive length—was laden with cakes. Of every conceivable variety.
Cakes iced with peaks of whipped cream and garnished with wild strawberries; cakes covered in rolled-gum icing and clever marzipan violets. Cakes cocooned in spun-sugar floss.
On closer inspection, Clio could see that a narrow slice was already cut from each, so that the flavor and filling were visible. As she walked the length of the table, she saw layers she suspected to be chocolate, spice, toffee . . . and various shades of light yellow that would no doubt prove to be vanilla, almond, lemon, pineapple, rosewater, and who could know what else.
“You brought these from Town? All of them?”
“I just went to Gunter’s and asked for one of everything.”
She shook her head. “They’ll go to waste.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll distribute the surplus to local cottagers or something. First, have a taste and choose your favorite for the wedding cake. Hell, choose three. Or ten. You can be the bride with a twelve-tiered cake, with cupids bursting from it the moment it’s sliced, and all London will talk of it for years to come.” He caught her gaze. “I know you’ve waited a long time, and you’ve had every right to feel impatient. But this wedding is going to be your day, Clio.”
He stood tall and made a magnanimous sweep of his hand, as if he were a king ruling over Cakelandia. Just imagine, that gesture said. All this could be yours.
She understood his strategy now. He meant to overwhelm her with luxury, lavish choices upon her. If he piled on enough fantasy and spectacle, surely Clio would give in. A little cake waved under her nose, and she would give up all her dreams and plans to walk down the aisle instead.
She couldn’t decide whether he failed to understand her, or didn’t respect her. After their talk in the tower, she had hoped he might afford her a touch more credit.
Apparently not. All her plans for this place—and her own independence . . . Rafe thought she would trade it all for a twelve-tiered cake with cupids bursting out the top.
He took a slice of chocolate cake and dug into it with a fork. “Try this one first.”
He extended the plate to her.
She looked at it. “No, thank you.”
“Did you want to start with another?” He set the plate down and prodded an orange-colored slice with the tines of the fork. “I think this one’s filled with apricot cream.”
“I don’t care to taste any of them.”
“Come along. You have to choose one.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. We had a bargain.”
“Then let Daphne and Phoebe and Teddy choose for me. Or you do it. Cake is for the guests, not the bride.”
He gave her an annoyed look. “I didn’t go to all this trouble and expense just so someone else could select your wedding cake.” He jabbed a fork into a lemon yellow slice and pressed the plate on her. “Taste it.”
“I don’t care for cake.”
“Liar. You love cake.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
“I did?” She didn’t recall that conversation.
“Yes, you did. Years ago. The summers you spent at Oakhaven. I remember it clearly.”
He was very near her now. Near enough that when he dug his fork into the slice of cake, she could smell the fragrance of lemon and hear the tiny ping of silver tines striking china.
He gathered a forkful and held it just inches from her lips.
“You,” he said, “make cake sounds.”
“Cake sounds?” she echoed. “What on earth are ‘cake sounds’?”
“Just what they’re described to be. When you eat cake, you make sounds.”
No, she didn’t. Did she?
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Sighs. Gasps. Breathy little moans. You . . . love . . . cake. Or at least you did, once. I know they’ve forced you to spend the past decade all pinned and buttoned and corseted and restrained. But I know”—he waved the fork before her—“you want this.”
A flush crept up her throat. “Even if I do make ‘cake sounds’—and I am not admitting that I do—it is most ungentlemanly of you to take notice of them.”
“I’m sure it is. But I’m not known for my gentlemanly behavior.”
No, he wasn’t. Rafe Brandon was a black sheep. A hotheaded rebel. The Devil’s Own. He was known throughout England for being quick, crude, strong, dangerous.
And tempting. Devilishly, irresistibly tempting.