Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(4)

“I’m calling it off,” she blurted out. “The wedding, the engagement. Everything. I’m calling it all off.”

He dropped to the floor.

The air prickled around them.

And his dark expression told Clio, in no uncertain terms, he hadn’t predicted that.

Rafe stared at her.

This was not how his month was supposed to be going. He’d holed himself away in this storehouse to train for his comeback. When he met Jack Dubose for the second time, it would be the biggest bout of his life and the largest purse ever offered in English history. To prepare, he needed intensive physical conditioning, undisturbed sleep, nourishing food . . .

And absolutely no distractions.

Then who should walk through the door? None other than Miss Clio Whitmore, his most persistent and personal distraction. Of course.

He’d always been at odds with her, ever since they were children. He’d been an impulsive, rough-mannered devil. And she’d been the picture of an English rose, with her fair hair, blue eyes, and delicate complexion. Genteel and hospitable and well-mannered, too.

Just so irritatingly sweet.

In sum, Clio Whitmore was the embodiment of polite society. Everything Rafe had spurned at the age of twenty-one. Everything he’d vowed to dismantle.

And that had to be what made it so damned tempting to dismantle her.

Whenever Clio was near, he couldn’t resist shocking her proper sensibilities with a flex or two of brute strength. He liked to devil her until he turned her cheeks some new, exotic shade of pink. And he’d wondered, many times, how she’d look with that slick knot of golden hair undone, tangled from lovemaking and damp with sweat.

She was his brother’s intended. It was wrong to think of her that way. But outside a boxing ring, Rafe had never done much of anything right.

He pulled his gaze from the frothy white fichu edging her neckline. “I think I misheard you.”

“Oh, I’m certain you heard me correctly. I have the papers right here.” She unrolled a sheaf of papers in her gloved hand. “My solicitors drew them up. Would you like me to summarize?”

Annoyed, he reached for the papers. “I can read.”

Somewhat.

Like all the legal documents shoved in front of him since the old marquess’s death, the papers were written in hen scratches so tight and close as to be indecipherable. Just glancing at it gave him a headache.

But that one glance told him enough.

This was serious.

“These aren’t valid,” he said. “Piers would have to sign them first.”

“Yes, well. There is someone with the power to sign for Piers in his absence.” Her blue gaze met his.

No.

Rafe couldn’t believe this. “That’s why you’re here. You want me to sign this?”

“Yes.”

“Not going to happen.” He thrust the papers back at her, then walked over to the punching bag and gave it a booming right cross. “Piers is on his way home from Vienna. And you are meant to be planning the wedding as we speak.”

“Exactly why I hoped to have these papers signed before he arrives. It seems the best way. I’d hate to make an unpleasant scene, and . . .”

“And unpleasant scenes are my specialty.”

She shrugged. “Quite.”

Rafe lowered his head and threw a barrage of jabs at the punching bag. This time, he wasn’t putting on a display. His brain worked better when his body was in motion. Fighting brought him to his sharpest focus, and he needed that now.

Why the hell would Clio want to break this engagement? She was a society debutante, raised for advantageous marriage the way thoroughbred horses were bred to race. A lavish wedding to a wealthy, handsome marquess should be her fondest dream.

“You won’t find a better prospect,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you must want to get married. What else could you hope to do with your life?”

She laughed into her sherry. “What else, indeed. It’s not as though we ladies are allowed to have interests or pursuits of our own.”

“Exactly. Unless . . .” He held his punch. “Unless there’s someone else.”

She was quiet for a moment. “There’s no one else.”

“Then it’s the anticipation getting to you. Just a case of cold feet.”

“It’s not that I’m a nervous bride, either. I simply don’t wish to marry a man who doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Why would you think he doesn’t want to marry you?” He threw a right hook at the bag, then followed it with a left.

“Because I’ve looked at the calendar. Eight years have passed since he proposed. If you truly wanted a woman, would you wait that long to make her your own?”

He let his fists fall to his sides and turned to her, breathing hard. His lungs filled with the scent of violets. Damn, she even smelled sweet.

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“But,” he continued, “I’m an impulsive bastard. This is about Piers. He’s the loyal, honorable son.”

Her eyebrow made the slightest quirk. “If you believe the scandal sheets, he has a mistress and four children tucked away somewhere.”