Bruiser pumped his fist. “Now that’s more like it.”
Rafe didn’t even see the gown. It was white, he assumed. Or eggshell, or ivory. There was probably silk and lace involved. Perhaps a few brilliants or pearls. Really, he couldn’t have described the cut or style or fabric to save his neck.
He only saw her.
The gown was like a master-crafted gold setting, and Clio was the jewel allowed to shine.
“Well?” Daphne prompted. “What do you think?”
An excellent question. What did he think? His brain had ceased responding.
Words. He should say some words, but he had no words. He was finding it difficult to locate air. All that came out was, “You . . . It’s . . . Buh.”
“Exquisite.”
The suavely articulated pronouncement came from somewhere behind him, but Rafe recognized the voice at once. He didn’t even need to turn. Now that the old marquess was dead, that voice could only belong to one man.
“Piers,” Clio breathed.
It was Piers. In the flesh.
Every time Rafe saw him, Piers looked more and more like their father. Tall. Strong, but lean. His dark hair had picked up a few new threads of silver. Squared shoulders like a shelf, with that refined, aristocratic face—unbroken nose and all—as its only ornament.
Ice blue eyes that saw everything and found it all wanting.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Clio said.
“It’s me. I’m back in England for good this time. And this is the best possible welcome home.” His gaze alternated between Clio and Rafe. “Seeing you both. The two people I care for most in the world.”
Piers crossed the carpet in decisive, very Granville strides, coming face-to-face with Rafe. “About Father.”
All the apologies and explanations Rafe had mulled over during the past few months . . . They all fled his brain.
And then his brother pulled him into a hug.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in Rafe’s ear. “I’m sorry you had to bury him alone. Damn it. I should have been there, too.”
Oh, Jesus.
“This is magical.” Bruiser dabbed a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t have planned it any better.”
Rafe didn’t want to hear about Bruiser and his magic. His emotions were in such turmoil, he thought he might be sick.
It only got worse.
Next, Piers walked the distance to Clio, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Just look at you. Exquisite. Perfect.”
And then . . . oh God . . . he kissed her.
Piers kissed “his” bride, right in front of everyone, and there wasn’t a damned thing Rafe could do about it. Except inwardly howl and bleed.
“I should have done that years ago,” Piers said upon lifting his head. “I wanted to.”
“You wanted to?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then . . . Why the eight bloody years of delay?” It really wasn’t Rafe’s place to ask, but he couldn’t help it.
“It was for your safety.” His brother released a heavy sigh. “I owe a thousand apologies to you both. I’ve lied to you for years now.”
“Lied? About what?”
“The nature of my work.”
“Were you not a diplomat?” Clio asked.
“Oh, I was working for the Foreign Office. And diplomacy was the larger part of it. But there were other duties, too. Ones I wasn’t so free to discuss.”
Rafe swore. “You’re not saying you’re some kind of spy?”
“No. We avoid saying that, generally.” He turned back to Clio. “It didn’t seem fair to marry you until I’d finished my work. But these damnable wars kept dragging on and . . . What’s this?” Piers lifted her hand and peered at it. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
“Oh, that.” Bruiser leapt to explain. “It’s being cleaned, my lord.”
Piers turned and stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”
Bruiser tugged on his lapels and straightened his spine. “Who do you think I am?”
“An imposing jackass?”
Bruiser lifted the quizzing glass. “What about now?”