She didn’t laugh. Or say anything.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stared at the blotter. After a prolonged pause, she dipped the quill and began to write.
Well, damn.
So that’s exactly what she’d been hoping would happen. And now he’d mocked her for daring to think it.
He hated to hurt her, but maybe it was for the best. That little scene she’d imagined was never going to occur. It couldn’t.
And she needed to understand that, in no uncertain terms.
“Clio, I’m sorry if you—”
“No, don’t. Don’t apologize. Why should anything between us change, just because you confessed to desiring me for years, then fondled my breast? Never mind that it was one of the most passionate, thrilling hours of my life. I suppose it’s just another Thursday to you.”
“You know that’s not true.”
Her head lifted, and her blue eyes burned into his. “You’re right. I do know it’s not true. And that makes this hurt all the more.”
Curse it. Rafe knew he was making a hash of this. “I just don’t belong in that world anymore. But you do, Clio. You should go and enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll be surrounded by gossip.” Her pen scratched across the page. She lowered her voice to a mocking whisper. “There she is, Miss Wait-More. Wonder if she’ll manage to bring him up to scratch this time. Care to place a wager on it?”
“It’s not going to be like that.”
“You’re right.” She paused in writing. Her demeanor softened. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not going to be like that. Because by this time tomorrow, I won’t be engaged any longer.”
Damn. Rafe didn’t like the sound of this.
She sealed the envelope with a bit of wax. “I won’t ask you to attend the ball. But you must sign those dissolution papers before I leave.”
“The week’s not over yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still tonight.”
“I can’t imagine what you could possibly do in one night that would change my mind.” She gave him a wry smile. “If you’ll excuse me, the messenger is waiting.”
She left the room, sealed reply in hand.
And Rafe started thinking of embroidery.
Dinner was miserable. At least, for half of the people at the table.
Clio was out of sorts and quiet. Rafe was out of sorts and quiet. Phoebe was out of sorts and quiet. Conveniently, however, the other half of their party seemed entirely oblivious to anyone’s distress.
Daphne prattled on about tomorrow night’s ball at the Penningtons’. The Esquire, as Clio had taken to calling him in her thoughts, filled any gaps by recounting his “Continental” escapades. And Teddy monopolized the fish course with a lengthy description of his newest pair of bespoke Hessians.
When the meal was over, they all adjourned to the drawing room.
“I’m finalizing the menu for the wedding breakfast,” Daphne said. “It’s almost finished. How many sauces should we have?”
“Can we speak of something else?” Clio asked, her voice breaking. “Please? I feel like such a neglectful hostess, making you work the whole week. And look at poor Teddy. He’s bored out of his mind by all this talk of menus. Why don’t we have a game?”
“What kind of game?”
“Any kind of game.” She’d agree to chase a greased pig through the corridors if it meant changing the topic from weddings. “We’ll play cards or backgammon or something.”
“Not cards,” Daphne said. “Not with Phoebe. She’s impossible to win against.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy playing with her,” Clio said, anxious for her sister’s feelings.
Phoebe turned a page of her book. “I don’t wish to play cards.”
Mr. Montague spoke up. “If I might make a suggestion . . . What say the ladies to a parlor game?”
“A parlor game?” Clio chanced a look in Rafe’s direction. The pained expression on his face was clear. He’d rather eat slugs than play parlor games. “Parlor games sound delightful.”
“Oh, I adore parlor games,” said Daphne. “They’re all so perfectly wicked. If they don’t have kissing, there’s blindfolded groping, or sitting on one another’s lap.”
“I was thinking of one particular parlor game. I learned it during my time on the Continent,” Montague said.
“A Continental parlor game?” Daphne asked. “This sounds promising. Does it involve groping?”
“No, Lady Cambourne. But I suspect you’ll enjoy it anyway.” He smiled. “We take turns, and each player makes three statements. Two must be true, and one must be a falsehood. The others have to guess which of the three statements is the lie.”
Daphne was quick to cut straws. When they were passed around, Rafe declined. Clio ended up with the shortest.
“But that will be too easy,” Daphne complained. “We’ve known Clio all her life, and she hasn’t any secrets.”
“Hasn’t she?” Reclining in the chair, Montague propped his left boot on his right knee. “I don’t know, Lady Cambourne. I have a suspicion Miss Whitmore just might be full of secrets.”
Clio said, “As a matter of fact, I am.”
At this, Rafe threw her a warning look. Her heartbeat accelerated.
Impossible man. Was he worried she’d announce her plans to break the engagement? Or perhaps he worried that she would confess their passionate embrace?