“Yes, with Clio.”
Rafe rose from his chair again and began to stalk the carpet fringe. He was irritated beyond belief. What was wrong with these people? This shouldn’t be difficult for any of them to believe. Yes, his brother was reserved, but surely they all loved Clio. She was entirely lovable.
All too lovable.
He might have entered into this falsehood halfheartedly, but he was committed to it now.
Committed with everything he had.
“When we last spoke, Piers reminisced about her come-out ball,” he said. “How she wore a gown of pale blue silk with lace at the edges. Pearls studded in her hair. He recalled how lovely she looked, even though she was nervous. He took note of how she greeted every guest with genuine kindness. And he told me that he knew, right then, there was no lady in the room her equal. That he felt like the luckiest of gentlemen, knowing she was promised to be his.” He swept a glance around the room. “He loved her then. He loves her still.”
Everyone was quiet as he returned to his chair.
“Not bad,” Bruiser muttered.
Cambourne smacked his thigh with his gloved palm. “Well, that’s a comfort. Isn’t it, dumpling?”
“You’re assuming that’s a truth,” Clio said evenly. “We’ve only heard two statements from Lord Rafe. I’m still waiting on the third.”
“The third. Right.” He cleared his throat. “I sleep in a lavender nightshirt. An embroidered one.”
Bruiser sipped his brandy. “How very literal of you.”
Daphne laughed. “Really, it’s no use. None of you know how to play this game at all. Your lavender nightshirt is almost as preposterous as Clio’s brewery. Do let’s play cards after all.”
Well, that was that. He seemed to have convinced her family at least, and Rafe didn’t know how to feel about it. Relieved, triumphant, disgusted with himself . . . His emotions were some combination of all these.
But his feelings were irrelevant. There was only one person in the room whose emotions mattered.
And if Rafe hadn’t managed to sway her tonight, there was no hope for him now.
Chapter Sixteen
Clio waited until midnight.
And then she waited a full hour more.
When she heard the footman pass down the corridor on his final patrol of the evening, she sat up in bed.
It was time.
She wrapped her dressing gown over her nightrail and cinched the sash tight. Then she plucked her chatelaine from the dressing table and ventured out into the corridor.
She went slowly. She had to; she hadn’t dared bring a candle. And she didn’t want to risk waking anyone with her footfalls or rattling keys.
At the end of the hall, she turned and hugged the right side of the corridor, counting the doors until she reached the fourth. After scouting the surface with her fingertips to find the keyhole, she inserted the master key from her chatelaine . . .
Held her breath . . .
And turned it in the lock.
Click.
The door swung inward, soundless on its well-oiled hinges.
She waited in the doorway for a moment, giving her eyes time to adjust. A banked fire glowed in the hearth, coaxing her forward. Clio made her way into the room, then took a stub of beeswax candle from the mantelpiece and crouched to light it with the coals. The single flame painted the room with a weak yellow glow.
She could see the room better now.
She could see him better now.
And good heavens. Wasn’t he magnificent.
The bed in this chamber was a large one, but the ranging sprawl of his limbs made it look like a child’s bed. All the coverlets had been cast aside. The pillows, too—save one. He slept on his back, draped by a single linen bedsheet. Beneath it, his body was a landscape of sculpted ridges and shadowed glens. With every breath, his chest rose and fell.
She watched, transfixed, until she realized she was breathing in time with him.
Clio left the candle on the mantelpiece and crept toward the side of his bed. She eased herself onto the edge of the mattress, stretching out her legs so that she lay on her side, propped up on one elbow.
With her free hand, she gingerly plucked the edge of the bedsheet and—after waiting one, two, three breaths to make certain he didn’t wake—began to tease the linen downward. She worked slowly, carefully . . . knowing the answer she sought would lie beneath.
He stirred in his sleep. Eyes still closed, he rolled onto his side, throwing an arm toward her.
His hand landed on her thigh.
Clio sucked in her breath. She held still, squeezing all her muscles tight. Her heart, however, wouldn’t be so easily reined in. It hammered in her chest, so loud she was certain the pounding would wake him.
Oh drat. Oh Lord.
She’d left her room feeling secure in the brilliance of this idea. Suddenly the idea wasn’t just an idea, but a reality—an immense, sleeping, sensual giant of a reality—and she wasn’t secure at all.
His hand was on her thigh.
And moving.
Even this afternoon, he hadn’t dared to touch her so boldly. His fingers stretched and flexed. His caresses widened to shameless, possessive circles of her hip.
Was it possible she’d entered his dream now?
If so, she couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing in there.
His fingers flexed, squeezing her backside. “Clio,” he groaned.
Something good, it would seem.
With a low moan, he snaked his arm around her waist, and a small contraction of his muscles drew her close. “Clio.”