Clio stepped aside. “Yes, of course.”
The gawping mouth of Twill Castle swallowed them in, and an awed hush seized their tongues.
Even four hundred years ago, stonemasons knew how to build to impress. The castle’s entrance hall soared the full height of the building. A grand staircase wrapped around the space, drawing the eye upward. And then upward yet some more. Gilt-framed paintings and portraits—not small ones—climbed every inch of available wall, stacking four or five high in places.
After several moments, Teddy whistled low.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” Daphne said. “Quite grand. Only I think it would be better if it weren’t so . . . so old.”
“It’s a castle,” Phoebe said. “How can it not be old?”
Daphne pinched Clio’s arm in a gesture that seemed half affection, half spite. “But a home is a reflection of its mistress. You shouldn’t let the place show that it’s getting on in age. For instance, you could cover all these ugly stone walls with new paneling. Or French toile. And then we’ll drape some fresh silk on you.”
Her sister swept Clio with a look that made her new frock feel frowsy and tattered. Then she clucked her tongue in a frighteningly accurate impression of Mama.
“Not to worry,” she said, patting Clio’s shoulders. “We do have a few weeks yet to improve. Isn’t that right, Teddy?”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed. “We’ll make certain his lordship doesn’t bolt again.”
Clio smiled and turned away. Partly because “smile and look elsewhere” was the only way to cope with her brother-in-law, but mostly because her attention was drawn toward the gravel drive.
A lone rider approached on a dark horse, churning up great clouds of dust as he thundered down the lane.
“Did someone else come from London with you?”
“No one,” Teddy said.
“Could that . . .” Daphne joined her in the arched entryway and squinted. “Oh, no. Could that be Rafe Brandon?”
Yes.
That could only be Rafe Brandon.
He’d always been a magnificent rider. They seemed to have a sort of animal understanding, he and horses. A communion of beastly natures.
As if to demonstrate, he brought his mount to a halt in the circular drive without any shouting or hauling on the reins, but merely using a firm nudge of his knee to steer the beast into a tight circle.
With a calming word to the horse, Rafe dismounted in one smooth motion. Massive boots punched the ground. His riding breeches were buckskin. All men’s riding breeches were buckskin. But she would wager anything that this buckskin was stretched over this man’s thighs more tightly than it had stretched over the original buck.
Billowing greatcoat. Black riding gloves. No hat. Just waves of dark, heavy hair. A gust of wind gave it a rakish tousle.
He was sin in human form. No wonder they called him the Devil’s Own. Lucifer probably paid him to advertise.
“Good heavens,” Daphne said. “Do you think he tries at that?”
Clio was glad to know it wasn’t only her. “I can’t imagine why he’d try for our benefit. I think it’s just how he is.”
“Surely you weren’t expecting him.”
“No.” But perhaps she should have been.
“Oh, no. It looks as though he means to stay.”
As the dust settled, they could see that a coach had followed Rafe down the drive. The castle’s stables would be full to overflowing tonight.
“Can’t you make him go away?” Daphne asked. “He’s so brutish and common.”
“He’s still the son of a marquess.”
“You know what I mean. He doesn’t behave like one anymore. If he ever did.”
“Yes, well. Every family has its idiosyncrasies.” Clio patted her sister on the shoulder. “I’ll go greet him. Anna and the housekeeper will show you and Phoebe to your chambers, so you can settle in.”
As Clio went out to greet him, Rafe’s silhouette grew larger and larger in her vision. And she felt herself growing pinker in response.
He nodded in greeting.
“This is a surprise,” she said. “And I see you’ve brought friends.”
A man alighted from the carriage—a slender fellow who wore a dark greatcoat and the sort of genial, unruffled manner one would need to possess if one were friends with Rafe. And from the coach’s interior, he lifted the squattest, oldest, ugliest bulldog Clio had ever seen. Goodness. The poor, aged thing. Even its wrinkles had wrinkles.
Once placed on the ground, the dog promptly made a puddle in the drive.
“That’s Ellingworth,” Rafe said, removing his riding gloves.
Clio curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Ellingworth.”
Rafe shook his head. “Ellingworth is the dog.”
“You have a dog?”
“No. Piers has a dog.” He looked at her as though she should know this.
But she didn’t know this. How curious. Clio couldn’t recall Piers ever mentioning a dog. Not aside from the hunting hounds his groundskeeper kept at Oakhaven.
“Some souvenir from his Oxford days,” Rafe explained. “There’s a story behind it. A mascot or a prank . . . maybe both. Anyhow, the dog’s been living with me. He’s fourteen years old. He requires a special diet and round-the-clock care. I had the veterinarian write it all out.”
He reached into his pocket and handed Clio some notes.