“I imagine it wasn’t. You looked magnificent in this.” She hugged his finely tailored topcoat around her. “I don’t suppose you went to all that trouble just to come serve my brother-in-law a mean right cross.”
He made a futile gesture. “We were supposed to dance. A proper dance. One long enough for me to tell you how goddamn beautiful you are in that gown. The way I should have done at your debut, years ago.”
Oh, Rafe.
“And then before I left, I was going to pull you aside somewhere quiet and give you . . .”
“What? Then you’d give me what?”
He nodded at her. “Check the pocket.”
She slid one hand to the breast pocket of his tailcoat and reached inside. Her fingers closed on a packet of papers.
The papers.
“You didn’t.”
“I had to. You deserve that much. I—”
“Sir, beggin’ pardon again.”
The serving girls were back. Once again, Rafe stepped out of the doorway to let them through. They brought yet another pitcher of water for the bath, an armful of towels, and a tray with a pot of tea, bread, and what smelled like rabbit stew.
“Will that be everything, sir?” the eldest tavern girl asked.
He nodded. “Ready a meal for me downstairs, if you would. I’ll be down in a trice.”
The three of them left, and the moment they disappeared, Clio could hear them giggling and whispering in the corridor.
“Listen, I can’t stay and chat. I’d wager we have about three minutes before your reputation is destroyed.”
“They don’t know who I am.”
“They know who I am. Or someone will. And it wouldn’t be difficult to find out the rest.” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine. I wouldn’t mind it if the whole world knew. I’d like to hang a sign on this door that says ‘Ruination in Progress,’ and lock the both of us inside.”
None of that sounded so terrible to Clio.
“But that’s not why I came to the ball tonight,” he said. “I wanted—”
With a glance down the corridor, he ducked under the lintel and entered the room. The door remained open.
He lowered his voice. “Clio, I wanted to give you choices. Not take them.”
Her fingers curled around the papers. “So you do mean to sign these?”
“I already did.”
She looked down at the papers, uncurling them to verify. There it was, his signature on the final page, scrawled bold and unapologetic across the parchment.
“You’re no longer engaged, as of half-seven this evening. I wanted to let you know right away. In case it improved your enjoyment of the ball tonight. I owed you more than a waltz. I wanted to you to feel free. Free to dance, to flirt, to tell the gossips to go to the devil.” He shook out his arms. “Instead, we’re here.”
“Yes. We’re here.”
And Clio wasn’t upset about it in the least. Perhaps this wasn’t what he’d planned, but to her it was a thousand times better than any waltz.
“Well. For whatever good it does you, you’re an independent woman now. Free to go wherever you please and do what you like.”
She stood silent for a moment. “In that case . . .”
In calm, measured steps she walked around him and went straight for the entryway.
Then she closed the door and turned the key, locking them both inside.
“I want to spend the night with you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Clio held her breath. For a brief, terrifying moment, nothing happened.
He made no sound. No movement. No reaction at all.
Not even a blink.
And then, in a heartbeat, he had her pressed against the door. Her spine met the wood with a teeth-rattling urgency. His hands slid to her backside, and he lifted her, molding her body to his.
His words were a low growl against her lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”