Say Yes to the Marquess (BOOK 2 OF CASTLES EVER AFTER)
Tessa Dare
Dedication
For the big brown dog, in loving memory.
You’ve been such a good boy.
Acknowledgments
So many smart and talented people had a hand in making this book happen. I owe much gratitude to my brilliant editor, Tessa Woodward; my fantastic agent, Steve Axelrod; all the wonderful people at Avon Books/HarperCollins, and copyeditor extraordinaire, Martha Trachtenberg.
Thank you to Courtney, Carey, Leigh, Bren, Bree, Susan, Laura, Karen, and all on The Unnamed Loop for your invaluable friendship, hugs, and support. I’m indebted to the following friends for sharing their experience and subject expertise: Brenna Aubrey, Jeri Smith-Ready, and Greg Nagel. Thank you to Diana and Carrie for the badger (bruiser) balm, and many thanks to Larimar for loaning her irreplaceable ring.
To my wonderful family, who put up with so much artistic angst and takeout—I love you.
And as always, thank you to my readers. I wish I could give you all some cake.
Chapter One
Oh, Miss Whitmore. Just look at this horrid place.”
As she alighted from the coach, Clio took in the narrow, cobbled passage between two rows of warehouses. “It looks like an alleyway, Anna.”
“It smells of blood. Lord preserve us. We’ll be murdered.”
Clio bit back a smile. Her lady’s maid was a marvel with curling tongs, but her capacity for morbid imagination was truly unmatched.
“We will not be murdered.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “At least, not today.”
Miss Clio Whitmore had been raised by good parents, with the benefits of education and close attention to propriety, and she was engaged to marry England’s most promising young diplomat. She was not the sort of foolhardy young woman to go skulking about dodgy alleyways at midnight with an unloaded pistol in her pocket, in search of London’s most infamous scoundrel.
No, that would not do.
When Clio struck out in search of London’s most infamous scoundrel, she waited until midday. She entered the dodgy alleyway with a footman, her lady’s maid, and a minimum of skulking. And she didn’t carry any weapons at all.
Really, what could be the purpose? When the man you sought was a six-foot, sixteen-stone prizefighter, an unloaded pistol wouldn’t be any help. The lethal weapons in the mix were his fists, and a girl could only hope they were on her side.
Rafe, please be on my side. Just this once.
She led the way down the dank, narrow alley, hiking her lace-edged hem and taking care that her half boots didn’t catch on the uneven pavement.
Anna skipped from one to another of the cleaner cobblestones. “How does the second son of a marquess end up here?”
“On purpose. You may depend on it. Lord Rafe spurned good society years ago. He delights in anything brutish or coarse.”
Inwardly, Clio wondered. The last time she’d seen Rafe Brandon, the man who was to be her brother-in-law, he’d been nursing grave wounds. Not only the physical aftermath of the worst—more aptly, the only—defeat of his prizefighting career, but the blow of his father’s sudden death.
He’d looked low. Very low. But not so low as this.
“Here we are.” She rapped on the door and lifted her voice. “Lord Rafe? Are you there? It’s Miss . . .” She bit off the name. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to announce herself in a place like this. “I need only a few minutes of your time.”
That, and his signature. She clutched the sheaf of papers in her hand.
There was no answer.
“He’s not at home,” Anna said. “Please, Miss Whitmore. We need to be on our way if we’re to reach Twill Castle by nightfall.”
“Not just yet.”
Clio leaned close to the door. She heard sounds coming from within. The screech of chair legs across a floor. The occasional hollow thud.
Oh, he was in there. And he was ignoring her.