“Yes, of course.”
“Then . . . Why the eight bloody years of delay?” It really wasn’t Rafe’s place to ask, but he couldn’t help it.
“It was for your safety.” His brother released a heavy sigh. “I owe a thousand apologies to you both. I’ve lied to you for years now.”
“Lied? About what?”
“The nature of my work.”
“Were you not a diplomat?” Clio asked.
“Oh, I was working for the Foreign Office. And diplomacy was the larger part of it. But there were other duties, too. Ones I wasn’t so free to discuss.”
Rafe swore. “You’re not saying you’re some kind of spy?”
“No. We avoid saying that, generally.” He turned back to Clio. “It didn’t seem fair to marry you until I’d finished my work. But these damnable wars kept dragging on and . . . What’s this?” Piers lifted her hand and peered at it. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
“Oh, that.” Bruiser leapt to explain. “It’s being cleaned, my lord.”
Piers turned and stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”
Bruiser tugged on his lapels and straightened his spine. “Who do you think I am?”
“An imposing jackass?”
Bruiser lifted the quizzing glass. “What about now?”
“An imposing jackass with a monocle.”
Maybe this scene was some sort of magic. Rafe had always known there was much he should admire about Piers. But in this moment, he actually liked his brother.
Daphne intervened. “Oh, Lord Granville. Don’t be such a tease. You know it’s Mr. Montague. We’ve been working on the wedding preparations all week. Everything’s ready. Why, with Clio all dressed . . . the two of you could be married today.”
“Daphne,” Clio said.
Her sister replied through clenched teeth, “Don’t argue. It would be a prudent idea, after last night.”
“What happened last night?” Piers asked.
Daphne waved a hand. “There was the worst sort of scene at a ball, but Clio was blameless. It was all Lord Rafe’s fault.”
Piers smiled a little. “The worst scenes are usually Rafe’s fault.”
Oh, yes. They were.
And Rafe felt another scene coming on now.
His brother had an arm around Clio. Like it belonged there. It was enough to make Rafe taste smoke and smell blood.
Step away from her, he willed. She’s not yours.
“Piers, we need to talk,” Clio said.
“Yes, I think we should. I’m beginning to suspect I never actually left the Continent, and this is all just one elaborate hallucination.” Piers cleared his throat and brought out that classic Granville ring of authority. “Will someone tell me, in simple words, just what is going on?”
“I will.” Phoebe meandered into the room, holding a book. “Clio’s not going to marry you. She’s going to live here in this castle and open a brewery.”
“Thank you,” Piers said. “Now I know I’m going mad.”
“She’s not yours,” Rafe said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Rafe knew he was the one who’d be begging all the pardons. But it had to come out, and he couldn’t wait. “You heard me. She’s not yours anymore.”
His brother’s gaze narrowed to an icy beam of interrogation. “What did you do?”
“Only what she asked.”
“You bastard. Did you touch her?”
“I—”
“Rafe, don’t,” Clio said, sounding frantic. “Please.”
Her words were a stab to the heart.
Granted, it was a self-inflicted wound. He’d told her all week she should marry Piers. He’d repeated that same stupidity this morning. And now the man himself was back, setting all her insecurities to rest with a worldly air and a hero’s mantle. And kisses.
Why would she ever choose Rafe?
If Rafe could choose to be any man in this room, he wouldn’t choose Rafe.
Clio turned to Piers. “You must understand. Your brother’s been so loyal to you. When I had doubts about the wedding, he tried to change my mind. He made every effort to convince me, said such lovely things on your behalf. That’s not all he’s done. He’s managed Oakhaven in your absence. And wait until you see what marvelous care he’s taken of . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she glanced about the room, ducking to peer under the furnishings.
“Oh, dear. Has anyone seen the dog?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ellingworth! Ellingworth, darling, are you here?”
Clio hurried up and down the garden paths, ducking to peer under every bench and shrub, and pausing at each corner to wipe the rain from her eyes. They’d searched the entire castle already. He had to be outside somewhere.
The mud puddles sucked at her heeled slippers, slowing her down. Eventually, she gave up on them, kicking her shoes off. Her stockings were already wet through.
Slippers clutched in one hand and skirts gathered in the other, she began to race down the row of neatly trimmed hedges and arbors. The longer they went without finding the bulldog, the more her anxiousness increased. Dogs were made to withstand some rain and chill. But a dog this old, already in poor health?
Poor Ellingworth.
Poor Rafe.
It would kill Rafe if something happened to that dog. He’d taken care of the beast so faithfully all these years. Those meticulous diets, all the special veterinary care . . .