She laughed at herself.
Says the girl who’s never once been embraced.
She said, “I’ve been conferring with the land agent ever since the property came to me. We’re planning to convert this tower into an oast.”
“An oast.”
“You do know what an oast is, don’t you?”
“Of course I know what an oast is.” He crossed his arms and regarded her. “You tell me what you think an oast is, and I’ll judge if you’re correct.”
She shook her head. Even to a relative innocent like Clio, sometimes men could be so transparent. At a moment like this, it was comforting.
“An oast is a tall, round building for drying hops and malt,” she said. “To convert this tower, we’ll need to build a great kiln here on the ground floor. Upstairs, there’d be a flat platform for drying. Then a vent at the top to draw the heat upward. There, now. How was that definition?”
“Acceptable.”
“And that’s just the beginning. Not only is the soil in this region ideal for hopfields, but we’ve a river with clear, crisp water that runs straight through the property. Once we complete the oast, we’ll start building the brewery.”
His head jerked in surprise. “Wait, wait. A brewery?”
“It’s as I told you last night. I mean to do something with the place.”
“You want to run a brewery.” His gazed raked her. “You.”
“Yes. Twill Castle is a touch far from London, but just here in Kent we can sell our product to countless public houses. There’s ample storage space under the castle.”
“Ah. So you agree. Those are cellars.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Have it your way. They’re cellars. And they’re perfect. The entire scheme is perfect. Even you must admit it.”
“I’m not admitting anything.” He shoved a damp swoop of hair from his brow. “It’s a terrible idea. What could you know about beer?”
“More than you know about weddings.”
Over the past eight years, she’d studied not only foreign etiquette and world events, but agricultural news and land management, too. Her mother claimed it was all in service of becoming the perfect bride. She must be prepared to converse with her husband on any topic that might interest or concern him.
Clio hadn’t minded, truly. Reading all those newspapers and books helped pass the time while she was . . . waiting, on one thing and another. Chaperoning Phoebe with her tutors. Sitting through Daphne’s dressmaker fittings. Keeping vigil by Mama’s sickbed, after the doctors declared there was nothing more to be done. Clio read through it all.
Then came the day she learned that this castle belonged to her. And she realized that something else belonged to her, too. All that knowledge she’d accumulated . . . It was hers.
She was as prepared to manage an estate as Piers could have been, what with his incessant traveling. There was only one significant difference that set them apart.
Unfortunately, it was the one difference everyone—including Rafe—couldn’t seem to see past.
“You’re a woman.” He pronounced this statement as though it were the beginning, end, and sum of any argument.
“And you think a woman can’t run a brewery? Or is it just that you don’t believe in me?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what all the farmers, brewers, and tavernkeepers think.”
“Until a few centuries ago, all brewing was women’s work. Even today, any sizeable estate brews its own small beer. It’s where we get yeast for the bread.”
“There’s a difference between making small beer for the servants’ hall and brewing ale for distribution.”
“I know there is. This is why I wanted you to sign the dissolution papers. If we’re to start brewing next year, we need to start building now. That means I need my dowry unencumbered, and the sooner the better. The architect won’t begin the drawings without payment.”
“Listen, if you’ve set your heart on opening a brewery on this property, all the more reason to marry Piers. His men of business could oversee everything.”
“I’m not marrying Piers. And I can hire my own men of business. Can’t you see? I want something that’s mine. A challenge.”
“When you marry Piers, you’ll have the title of marchioness. A house in London and a vast estate to manage. He’ll have diplomatic duties. There will be children. If that’s not enough, there are any number of worthy charitable ventures to which you could lend your time and your name. You won’t lack for challenges.”
“But this is different.”
“How so?”
She gestured with frustration. “This is a challenge where I have some chance to succeed.”
“What? That’s absurd. You’ll make the perfect Lady Granville.”
There it was. That bold, ridiculous word again.
Perfect.
“I mean what I’m saying.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Look at me.”
She looked at him. It wasn’t easy. He was so close and so large. She had to tip her head back, exposing the vulnerable length of her throat to the cool, damp air. Her pulse beat like an indecisive rabbit’s.
“I know it’s been a long wait,” he said. “I know there’s gossip.”
“Those are under—”