Surely she couldn’t doubt him on this. Even if she believed Rafe capable of deceit, she had to have felt his lust for her tonight. Every hot, steely inch of it.
On the other hand, considering that she’d received nothing but casual insults and neglect from her family, peers, and intended groom for the past several years . . . to the point of being starved into illness . . . Rafe supposed a little dirty talking and a prod in the soft bits might not be the gesture of confidence she craved.
A lacy white gown probably wasn’t the answer, either.
Damn. Rafe had never been any kind of scholar, but this week, he’d truly been an idiot.
I want a challenge, she’d told him. Something that’s mine.
She was already a fighter. He should have recognized it from the first. She couldn’t have survived these past eight years if she didn’t have a champion’s heart. But she didn’t want to win at “Mother’s game,” any more than Rafe wanted to be world champion of lawn bowls.
She wanted to define her own success.
“So that grand wedding of every girl’s dreams,” he said, “where you float down the aisle like an angel and prove all the gossips wrong. That isn’t the victory you’re wanting.”
“No. It isn’t.”
He nodded. “Then finish your cake and porter. And we’ll see about toughening you up.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clio hadn’t the faintest idea what Rafe had in mind. They took lamps in hand and moved to the drawing room, where he cleared the small tables and chairs to make an open space.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to teach you to throw a punch.”
She laughed. “You want me to punch your brother?”
“No.” He pushed a settee toward the wall.
“Then I don’t understand why this is relevant.”
“I know you don’t. But give it a chance. The time for politeness is over. You need to get meaner, Clio. Understand the power in your body and how to harness it.”
“Power?” She lifted her delicate arm for his appraisal. “Do you see any power in this body?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You mean the power to draw a man’s gaze, perhaps. Apparently that never worked on Piers.”
“I mean strength. It’s in there, just waiting to be unleashed.” Having cleared the last of the furniture, he came to stand before her. His gaze homed in on hers. “Trust me.”
Clio wanted to trust him. However, she suspected this entire exercise would only make her look like more of a fool. Her, throwing a punch?
But she had to try. Rafe claimed he wanted to settle his debts with Piers. She knew his yearning went much deeper than that. He needed a family. Lasting connection. And if he was to have any chance at it, Clio couldn’t ask him to fight her battles. She needed to learn to take swings of her own.
“Very well. What do I do?”
“First, you need to loosen up.”
He took her wrists in his big, roughened hands and shook out her arms as though they were a pair of eels he meant to clobber. She felt ridiculous.
“Good.” He released her wrists and circled to stand behind her. His hands moved to bracket her skull. “Now roll your head back and forth a bit. Stretch out your neck.”
She did as he guided, looking from side to side, and then to the ceiling and floor. She bounced back and forth, transferring her weight from one foot to the other. “When does the punching start?”
“Patience, patience. Stand with your feet apart, about the breadth of your shoulders. Shoulders down, arms loose. Find your center of balance.” His splayed hand settled low on her belly. “Here. You feel it?”
How could she not feel it?
If the goal was loosening her up, he’d achieved it. The warm, possessive weight of his hand on her belly, coupled with the low, rumbling voice in her ear . . .
Oh, he made her feel all sorts of loose.
“I . . . I think I’m ready now.”
“Then show me a fist.”
She made a fist and held it up. “Here.”
He tsked. “No, not like that. You’ll break your thumb.” He unfolded her fingers and balled them up again, this time placing her thumb on the outside.
Then, molding his arms around hers, he guided her into a fighting stance. Right leg slightly back, both fists up in a posture of defense. The broad, solid heat of his chest worked like an iron, smoothing all the tension from her back.
“The first punch you learn is a jab,” he said. “Step forward with your left foot, and push your left fist straight out. Let your body weight propel it forward. Quick and sharp, like a bee sting. Then retract. Like this, see?”
Clio made her joints limp and allowed him to move her through the punching motions as though she were a marionette.
“Then you follow with a right cross.” He guided her right fist forward. “Can you feel your torso twisting behind the punch?”
She nodded.
“That’s where the force comes from. It’s not your arm, it’s the rest of you.”
When he threw their combined fists forward, she could feel the sheer bulk of him backing the blow. Sheets of muscle bunching and flexing beneath his skin.
With Rafe behind her, she felt as though she could topple mountains. But it was all borrowed strength. He could flick his fingertip and send a man flying, if he wished.
“Now it’s your turn.” He released her and plucked two firm, upholstered pillows from the divan. He held the cushions in either hand, the flat side presented to Clio at approximately shoulder height. “Have a go.”