Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(8)

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.

Three full pages of them.

“Well,” she said. “Now that I know Ellingworth is the dog, might I be introduced to your friend?”

“This is Bru—”

“Bruno Aberforth Montague,” the man interrupted. “Esquire.” He bowed over Clio’s hand and brought it to his lips. “At your service.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

In reality, she wasn’t entirely sure. Not about this Mr. Montague, and not about Rafe.

While Mr. Montague put the dog on a lead and walked him to the grassy edge of the drive, she went after some answers. “Dare I hope you’ve merely dropped by to sign the papers?”

“Absolutely not. It’s like we discussed. I’m here to plan the wedding.”

She froze. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Don’t panic, she told herself. Not yet.

“I thought you were in training. No distractions.”

“I can train here in Kent. The country air is beneficial for the constitution. And you can keep the distractions to a minimum by cooperating with the wedding plans. Piers wants you to have everything you ever dreamed of on the grand day.”

“So I’m to believe this is Piers’s idea?”

He shrugged. “It might as well have been. Until he returns, I have the full weight of his fortune and title at my disposal.”

Now, she told herself. Panic now.

“Rafe, I can’t play your little game. Not this week. My sisters and brother-in-law just arrived.”

“Excellent. That’s three wedding guests we won’t need to invite.”

She rolled the papers in her hands. “You know very well there won’t be any wedding.”

He glanced at the castle. “And you’ve told your family this news?”

“No,” she was forced to admit. “Not yet.”

“Ah. So you’re not truly decided.”

“I am truly decided. And you are truly vexing. Rolling in like a storm cloud on your black horse, all dark and dramatic and unexpected. Demanding to plan weddings and bringing me lists.”

“I’m all kinds of trouble, and you know it. But I know you, too.”

Her breath caught. Then she reminded herself that what sounded like flirting was often just male presumption. “You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, Rafe Brandon.”

“I know this much. You won’t turn me away.”

Rafe watched her carefully.

It wasn’t any hardship, to watch her carefully. But he had extra reason today.

Clio might not have made her final decision on marriage, but it was clear she didn’t want another pair of houseguests right now.

Another trio of houseguests, if one counted Ellingworth.

He took the lead from Bruiser and crouched beside the dog. He was so old, he was completely deaf, but Clio didn’t know that.

“Not to worry, Ellingworth.” He scratched the dog behind the ear. “Miss Whitmore is a model of etiquette and generosity. She wouldn’t turn an old, defenseless dog out into the cold.” He slid a glance at Clio. “Now would she?”

“Hmmph. I thought champions are supposed to fight fair.”

“We’re not in a boxing ring. Not that I can see.” After a moment’s thought, he decided to take a chance. “Is that a new frock?”

“I . . .” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. “I don’t see that it matters.”

Oh, it mattered. He knew these things mattered.

Rafe might not know a damn thing about planning weddings, but he knew a thing or two—or twelve—about women.

This was all Clio needed. A bit of attention. Appreciation. She’d been left waiting for so many years, she was feeling unwanted. Well, that was bollocks. Just look at her. Any man who didn’t want this woman would be a damned fool.

Piers wasn’t a fool.

Unfortunately, neither was Rafe.

“The color suits you,” he said.

And it did. The green played well with the gold of her hair, and the silk fit her generous curves like a dream. The kind of dream he shouldn’t be having.

He rose to his feet, letting his gaze sweep her one last time, from toes to crown.

By the time their eyes met, the flush on her cheeks had deepened to a ripe-berry hue. He smiled a little. Clio Whitmore’s complexion had more shades of pink than a draper’s warehouse. Every time Rafe thought he’d seen them all, he managed to tease out one more.