Say Yes to the Marquess

by Tessa Dare

  It was so ironic. As a youth, he'd never felt he belonged. Now the older he grew, the more he could see the Brandon traits he'd inherited. Qualities like ambition, and pride, and the stubborn refusal to admit any feelings until it was too damned late.

  He tamped down the futile swell of anger. The past was decided. There could be no changing it.

  Nor would there be any changing him.

  He couldn't be the man Clio needed. Even if he returned to society, scandal would always follow him. It wasn't merely the gossip. He was formed now, set in his ways--for good or ill. There was too much restlessness in his mind, and his body craved constant action. He wasn't suited to the life of a gentleman, and he didn't want to be. He could never be one of those useless, preening prats like Sir Teddy Cambourne.

  Rafe simply didn't know how to do nothing.

  Which was why, now that he'd finally read all these missives, he couldn't sit idle another moment. He owed her a debt much larger than a dance. Even if he couldn't be the man she needed, Rafe needed to do something.

  He stood, gathering the letters and envelopes one by one. When piled, they made a stack as thick as his wrist. Over the years, she must have invited him to hundreds of dinners, parties, balls.

  The least he could do was show up to one, and somehow make it worth all the rest.

  He rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness from his arms and legs. It wasn't too late. He had an hour or two of waning daylight. A few suitable items of clothing in this trunk. He couldn't dash off penniless, however.

  He went to the bar to retrieve his money. "Sorry, old friend," he told O'Malley. "The bout will have to wait for another day."

  Rafe reached for the purse.

  "Not so fast." Finn O'Malley's big hand clapped over his. "You want that back, you'll have to fight me for it."

  "I don't think Lord Rafe's coming."

  Clio had been holding the words back all evening, and now they slipped out. Here, in the quietest nook of the Pennington ballroom, where she and Phoebe had passed the last two hours. Waiting, watching. Punctuating the boredom by straightening the seams of her gloves or rearranging the drape of her rose-colored silk.

  Every once in a while, an acquaintance made the pilgrimage to their remote corner to exchange greetings. They asked about Piers and the wedding, and practiced the art of the subtle-yet-unmistakable smirk. She could tell what they all were thinking: Will Granville this time, or won't he?

  But it wasn't Piers and his absence that occupied Clio's mind.

  More than eight years after her debut ball, she was still waiting--in vain--for Rafe Brandon to claim his dance.

  As they watched the ladies and gentlemen pairing up for a dance, Phoebe teased a bit of string from her pocket. "He'll be here."

  "It's half past eleven. Perhaps something happened to change his plans."

  She'd meant to seek him out earlier that day, make certain he meant to attend. She didn't want Phoebe to be disappointed. But he hadn't come down for breakfast, and then she'd been too busy with her sisters, preparing for the ball. By the time she went searching for him midafternoon, he'd already gone. Bruiser said he probably meant to meet them at the ball, but who could know the truth.

  He could be back in that Southwark warehouse by now, carrying on with his life.

  Or he could be thrown from his horse, lying injured in a ditch and using his last bits of strength to write her name in his own blood.

  She really shouldn't hope for the second scenario, but a horrible, selfish part of her preferred it to the first. He wasn't here, and she couldn't help but feel hurt. It dredged up all those all subtle insults.

  You're a good girl, Clio. But that's not good enough.

  They were joined by Sir Teddy, who carried two cups of punch, and Daphne, who brought them a delicate scowl. "Phoebe, I can't believe you brought that string."

  "I don't go anywhere without string."

  "Well, you can't have a ratty bit of twine in a ballroom." She plucked the string from Phoebe's hand and cast it on the floor, where it was immediately trampled. "Tonight, we want people talking about Clio's wedding, not your peculiarities."

  "I have more," Phoebe said.

  "Peculiarities? Oh, yes. You have no end of those."

  "String." She reached into her reticule and brought out another length of twine.

  "Give that here." Daphne grabbed for the twine.

  This time, Phoebe held tight. "No."

  "Leave her be," Clio said. She was not in the mood to tolerate Daphne's mothering.

  For that's what all this was. Mothering, as they'd learned it in the Whitmore house. Daphne thought she was being caring and protective, in her own strange, misguided way. But she was wrong.

  Teddy clucked his tongue. "You're making a scene, kitten."

  "I don't care," Phoebe said loudly. "It's mine. You can't have it."

  People turned. Stared. Around them, conversations withered and died.

  This entire evening was a mistake, and it was all Clio's fault. She should have protected her sister. Phoebe wasn't ready for this. Perhaps she never would be.

  "Leave her be," Clio repeated.

  "It's for her own good, Clio. She has to break the habit."

  "For heaven's sake, why? Let her keep her string, and her peculiarities, too. Let her keep herself." She tilted her head toward the crowded, glittering ballroom. "We were brought up to care too much about what others think of us. It changed me. It changed you, too, Daphne. And I'm sad to say, neither of us changed for the better. I refuse to let Phoebe meet the same fate. She's remarkable."

  " 'Remarkable' is just the word. Everyone will be remarking."

  She turned to Phoebe, tucking the string in her sister's hand. "I'm going to make a promise. To you, and to myself. I'm your sister and now your guardian, and I love you. I will never make you feel you must be someone else, just to please society."

  "Don't be naive, Clio," Daphne said. "You can't brush aside society. You're going to be the wife of a diplomat, and a marchioness."

  "No, I won't be. I'm not marrying Piers."

  "Oh, dumpling," Teddy said, giving her a nudge in the side. "Don't give up now. I hope you're not listening to what they're saying in the card room."

  "Why? What are they saying in the card room?"

  Her brother-in-law looked sheepish. "They're wagering, of course. On whether the wedding will take place. Lord Pennington's giving odds of four to one against it."

  Ah. That was probably the true reason they'd been invited here tonight. To provide a bit of idle speculation and amusement. A joke.

  In that moment, Clio realized something wonderful.

  She just didn't care.

  Perhaps they'd worn her down. Or perhaps five-and-twenty was a magical age where a woman came into her own. For whatever reason, she truly, genuinely did not care one whit.

  And then, as though announcing a prize she'd been awarded, the majordomo cleared his throat. "Lord Rafe Brandon."

  No one was worried about string now. Not even Phoebe.

  Clio knew the man could make a dark, dramatic entrance on horseback. But turn him out in a fitted tailcoat, snowy cravat, and polished boots . . . ?

  Good heavens above.

  The strong cut of his jaw was pure Brandon, as was the easy air of command. But he brought with him that essential Rafeness, too. The aura of rebellion and danger that made the air prickle and set her heart racing.

  Everything about his looks declared he was born for just this setting.

  Everything about his expression told Clio he hated it.

  But he was here anyway.

  For her.

  He crossed to their corner and bowed to each of them in turn, saving Clio for last. "Miss Whitmore."

  She dropped a small curtsy. "Lord Rafe."

  "You came," Phoebe said.

  "Yes." He gave his cuff an uneasy tug and cast a glance around the crowded ballroom. "Sorry to arrive so late. Miss Whitmore, I suppose all your da
nces are spoken for."

  Clio couldn't help but laugh. "No. All my dances are free."

  "How the devil is that possible?"

  "I've been sitting out with Phoebe."

  The orchestra struck up the first strains of a waltz. Rafe took her by the hand. "Well, you're not sitting out a moment longer."

  Wearing a look on his face that blended defiance and unease, he led her to the dance floor and spun her into a waltz.

  He was a most capable dancer. It made sense that he would be. Moving with coordination and grace was a part of his trade.

  "I confess, I'd lost hope. I didn't think you were coming."

  "I wondered, too."

  When she could bear to look up at him--and how strange that was, that gazing up at him was what she most wanted to do, and yet it cost her every scrap of courage she could muster--she noticed a faint purple shadow on his left cheekbone. And his full, sensual lips were even fuller than usual on one side.

  "You've been hurt. What happened?"

  He shrugged. "Hit a bump in the road. So to speak."

  "It rather looks as though the bump hit back."

  His swollen mouth tugged to one side. "It was nothing I wouldn't have done ten times again to get here tonight. But I can't stay long. I just came to give you the dance I owed. And to say farewell."

  "Farewell?"

  He swept her into a turn. "I'm returning to London tonight. I assume I can leave Bruiser and Ellingworth at the castle with you."

  "Of course, but . . . Why? Piers will be home within a week or two. You'll want to see him, and I . . ." Her chest deflated. "I just don't understand why you have to go so soon."

  He drew her close and lowered his voice. "Come along. You're a clever girl, and it doesn't become you to pretend otherwise. You know why I have to leave."

  "I don't know at all. We can agree to keep our distance."

  "There's agreeing in principle, and then there's nightfall. There's being alone when it's dark and quiet, and knowing you're somewhere beneath the same roof. We can't rely on your insomniac relations to keep saving you. If I spent one more night in that castle . . ."

  His gaze swept down her body. She ached everywhere.

  "I'd come to you."

  I'd come to you.

  Those words. They made her heart flip and her knees go weak.

  "I'd come to you," he repeated, as if taking a solemn vow. "I wouldn't be able to stay away."

  "I could change rooms. I could move to--"

  He shook his head. "It wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter if you locked yourself in the highest, farthest tower. I'd find you. I'd come to your door in the night. And then . . . You know what would happen then."

  She couldn't breathe. "What would happen then?"

  "You'd answer." He moved closer, until she was faint with his heat and the clean, male scent of him. "You'd let me in, Clio. Wouldn't you? You couldn't turn me away."

  She nodded, entranced by the low, dark thrum of his words.

  He was right. If he knocked at her door in the middle of the night, she would let him in. And it didn't have anything to do with kindness or generosity. It had to do with yearning and desire. The wild chase of blood through her veins whenever he drew near. The pang of need that answered whenever he looked at her like this.

  The power of the emotion in those bold green eyes . . .

  If this man were ever to love--truly love--a woman could spend her whole life reeling from the force of it.

  But he was here to say farewell, and the sharp pain of losing him was enough to make her dizzy.

  He slowed them to a stop. "You've gone pale."

  Had she? Now that he mentioned it, the ballroom had gone dark at the edges. And her head was still spinning, even though they'd stopped dancing several moments ago.

  Her heart was just so full. And pounding. His suit, those words, the waltz . . .

  How could any mortal woman bear it?

  "Perhaps I just need some air," she said.

  Rafe shored her up with an arm about her waist. Then he steered her to the edge of the room, back to the corner where Daphne and Teddy were waiting with Phoebe.

  "Lady Cambourne." He nodded. "You should take your sister to the retiring room."

  "No." Clio scooped in a shallow breath. "Don't leave me. I'll be fine. It's just all that twirling on an empty stomach. Tight corset laces. You, in that coat."

  You, you, you.

  He didn't acknowledge the compliment. "Why is your stomach empty? Didn't you eat before the ball?"

  "Of course she didn't," Daphne said. "A lady never eats before a ball."

  Rafe looked only at Clio. "When's the last time you had a proper meal?"

  She hedged. "That's not . . ."

  "Answer me."

  With reluctance, she admitted, "Breakfast."

  He swore under his breath.

  "It's a bad habit." A habit Clio knew she needed to break. If she was going to guard Phoebe from damaging expectations, she had to extend the same protection to herself. "All I need is a cup of lemonade or barley water, and I'll be fine."

  He pulled her to her feet, lacing her arm through his. "You need proper food. I'm taking you in to supper."

  Daphne held them back. "But you can't. Not yet."

  "Not yet?"

  Goodness. Clio had never seen him wear an expression so stern. The furrow in his brow could have crushed walnuts.

  But Daphne, being Daphne, shrugged off his obvious anger. "There's an order to these things. Perhaps you've been out of circulation so long, you've forgotten it. But we don't all flock to the buffet like gulls. We go in to supper according to precedence. Beginning with the highest ranked, down to the last."

  "Then I can take her in first," Rafe said. "I'm the son of a marquess. No one here outranks me."

  Daphne corrected him. "We go by the ladies' rank. And my sister, as unmarried Miss Whitmore, is near the end of the queue."

  "She's engaged to marry a lord."

  "She's not married to him yet."

  Rafe clenched his jaw. "This is bollocks."

  Daphne smiled. "This is society."

  "At the moment, Lady Cambourne, I don't see a difference between the two." He tightened his arm, drawing Clio close. "We're going in to supper. Precedence be damned."

  "Truly, I can wait," Clio murmured.

  "But you won't." His deep voice shivered to the soles of her feet. Barely controlled anger radiated from him. "Not tonight. When I'm around, you don't wait out dances. You don't go hungry. And you sure as hell don't come at the end of any line."

  Good heavens. It was a struggle not to swoon all over again. But she didn't want this to mean the end of their evening.

  "I promise, I can wait. I'm already feeling better."

  "That's a good girl," Teddy said. He nudged Rafe in the side. "We do have to permit the ladies their vanities, Brandon. It's like I've told our dumpling again and again. Best to go easy on the supper buffet. Lord Granville already has one heavyweight in the family."

  Her brother-in-law chuckled merrily at his own joke.

  Clio wanted to disappear.

  "That's right," Rafe said, sounding amused. "Lord Granville does."

  Thwack.

  No one saw the punch coming. Not Clio, not Daphne. Certainly not Teddy, whose head whipped to the side with the force of Rafe's blow.

  He blinked. Then he staggered backward and fell, dropping on his arse with a weak, undramatic "oof." A dull thud that seemed to sum up the man's whole existence.

  She wanted to cheer.

  "Teddy!" Daphne cried. She knelt beside her husband, drawing the handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and pressing it to his bloodied lip. Then she turned a scathing gaze in Rafe's direction. "What's wrong with you? You're like some kind of animal."

  But Rafe wasn't there to hear it.

  When Clio searched the crowd for him, he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Well. That was that.

  Rafe's grea
t return to society was over before it had even begun.

  A crowd gathered at once. Crowds were always drawn to blood.

  From the moment he'd entered the ballroom, they'd all been hoping for a scene like this. Rafe had half expected it, too. This was why he'd told the grooms to keep his gelding saddled.

  As he carved through the crush of bodies on his way to the door, whispers and rumors buzzed about him like bees, stinging from all sides.

  They knew he didn't belong here.

  He knew it, too.

  He was an impulsive, reckless devil with no sense of comportment. There was only one reason he had any interest in attending balls or claiming the privilege that accompanied his given title: to pay his debts to Clio. Well, his aristocratic birthright couldn't even get her into the damned supper room. And he couldn't last ten minutes without unleashing his inner brute.

  Now the best thing he could do for her was to leave.

  A steady rain had started, turning the drives and pathways to mud. He turned up the lapels of his coat and made his way to the stables. He wouldn't get far in weather like this, but he would get somewhere.

  "Rafe! Rafe, wait."

  He turned. She came dashing to meet him, wet silk clinging to her legs. For that matter, wet silk was clinging to her everywhere.

  And of course the silk would be pink. It had to be pink.

  He drew her into the stables. "Clio, what are you doing? Go back in the house."

  "If you're leaving, I'm leaving with you."

  He threw a glance toward the grooms and lowered his voice. "Don't be absurd. It's raining. You'll catch a chill. And for Christ's sake, you still haven't eaten. Go inside at once."

  She shook her head. "I'm not going back. There's no going back."

  There's no going back.

  He didn't know what those words meant to her, but the possibilities both thrilled and horrified him.

  He shook off his damp coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, taking the chance to search her expression.

  Locks of golden hair were plastered to her face, and raindrops dappled her cheeks. Her nose was red. But her eyes had never been so clear and determined.

  Beautiful, foolish, impossible woman.

  "What about Phoebe?"

  "I asked her. She would be more upset if I didn't go after you."

  "If you want to leave, I can order your carriage driver to . . ."

  "I don't want the carriage. Not unless you mean to ride in it, too. Rafe, can't you understand this? I'm not running away from the party. I'm following you."

  No, no. Don't say that. Take it back.