“We’ll wash it.”
“Not because of where it’s been,” she said. “Well, partly because of where it’s been, but mostly because I’m not going to marry Piers.”
He sighed. “This would never have happened if you’d just tasted the cakes.”
“It would never have happened if you’d respected my wishes and signed the dissolution papers days ago.” Clio took a moment to compose herself. “But let’s not quarrel now. The important thing is, the dog is well.”
“Yes.”
They mounted a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, Rafe spoke to her again, more gently. As if he’d left his impatience and hard feelings at the bottom of the staircase.
“I should thank you for keeping watch with me. Again.”
“Again?”
“I never told you what it meant. Never properly thanked you at all, and that’s my fault. When the marquess died, you were a true help.”
“I didn’t do anything, really.”
“You were there. You made the arrangements for the funeral and answered the calls. You brought that little basket of . . . biscuits or something.”
“Muffins. They were muffins. Your father died, and I brought muffins.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am a muffin. Warm and bland and nice enough, but nothing to get excited about.”
“Nothing to get excited about. Right. That’s you, Clio. Do me a favor, will you? Tell that to my—”
Her pulse stuttered. She could imagine too many endings to that sentence, some of them lewd and others heart-wrenching. “To your what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Drat.
“I’m just glad Ellingworth will be well in the end,” she said. “I didn’t realize how much you cared for the poor old dear.”
“I don’t, really. It’s just . . . he’s not mine. He’s Piers’s dog. I can’t let something go wrong on my watch. I’ve had no choice but to take responsibility for the marquessate in his absence. But when my brother comes home, I mean to hand over everything in the same condition I received it. Then I’m done.”
Clio slowed to a halt in the center of the corridor. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh my Lord.”
Rafe stopped, too. “What? What is it?”
“I’m the dog.”
“What?”
“That’s it.” She turned to him. “I’m the dog. That’s why you’ve gone to all this trouble. It’s why you’re so bent on keeping me engaged. In your mind, I’m like the dog. I belong to Piers, and you’re not too attached to me—but you don’t want something to go wrong on your watch. You need to hand me over in the condition you received me.”
He opened his mouth to reply—then hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.
Clio didn’t need any words. That moment’s pause told her everything she needed to know.
She’d pegged it absolutely right.
She was the dog.
She stormed ahead, not caring if she left him alone in the dark. He was welcome to wander these corridors all night.
He caught up to her, whipping her around by the arm. “Clio, wait.”
She clenched her free hand into a fist. How she despised those words. They were the sum of her life, those two words: Clio, wait.
“You’re misunderstanding me,” he said.
“I don’t think I’m misunderstanding anything.”
“You are not the dog.”
“I might as well be. I’m a faithful, drooling little thing you want to keep alive, so Piers can come home and pat me on the head. Toss me a biscuit, perhaps.”
She started to growl in frustration, but held herself back. Considering the circumstances.
“Clio, Clio. You are so . . . so much more.”
“So much more than a dog. A high compliment. Thank you.”
“Will you stop going on about the dog?” He covered his eyes with one hand. “It’s late, and I’m not saying things right. But if you’ve somehow formed the impression that I don’t see you as a beautiful, intelligent, remarkable woman, we need to clear that up immed—”
She hooted with laughter. “Please. Just stop. We both know your brother could have had dozens of ladies more elegant, more accomplished. And as for you . . . well, you’ve actually had them.”
“My history is irrelevant. Yes, perhaps Piers could have married a lady more elegant or more accomplished. But he could never find one better. You don’t know, Clio. People toss around the words ‘loyal’ and ‘kindhearted’ as though they’re common qualities. But they aren’t. They’re so rare. A man could search the world and not find another you.”
She shook her head, refusing to look him in the eye. “I can’t listen to this anymore. You’re unbelievably selfish. You don’t admire me. You would marry me to a man I don’t love, and who doesn’t love me, just to satisfy your own convenience.”
“My convenience?”
He stepped back and took a glance down the corridor in either direction before steering her into his bedchamber and closing the door behind them. Then he removed the candlestick from her hand, placed it on a narrow side table, and braced his hands on her shoulders, holding her still.
His voice lowered to a raw whisper. “You think this is convenient for me? Planning your wedding to another man, then preparing to walk away forever? Do you think I’m not going to be tortured, thinking of you in all the years and decades to come? Imagining you bearing his children, hosting his parties, sharing those countless little moments happy couples never think to catalog, but the rest of us notice and envy like mad?”