They never truly had been.
“I’m not attempting to change your mind. But out of curiosity,” he said, “was there something I might have done differently?”
She smiled. “Other than not leaving the country for eight years and never being honest about your purposes?”
“Right. Other than that.”
Clio shook her head. “You could only be yourself. And I needed to grow into me. It’s all for the best.”
The actual signing of the papers was all very amicable.
When it was done, Piers sat back in his chair and regarded her. “So you had business in Town. Is it the brewery?”
She nodded. “We’re on our way. The hopfields will go in next spring. Construction on the new oasts is beginning next month. I’ve just seen the plans from the architect.”
She’d decided not to convert the old castle tower after all. The architect had declared the structure sound enough, but Clio just couldn’t bring herself to destroy the neighborhood’s favored trysting place. Not after she’d made a surveying trip there with the land agent and spied a remarkably fresh addition to the collection of lovers’ graffiti.
RB+CW
Right on the wall. Carved in stone.
He must have known she’d see it. She wondered when he’d etched it there. It must have been sometime after Piers’s return. It couldn’t have been as soon as after their first kiss.
Or could it?
Waiting on Rafe was more difficult than waiting for Piers had ever been. She missed everything about him—his impatience, his gentleness, his strength, his touch, his scent. But these months had not been wasted time. To distract herself, she’d thrown herself into the work, accomplishing more in less time than anyone—including Clio—would have suspected. She hoped Rafe had done the same.
“How is your brother?”
She couldn’t resist asking. She hoped the question tripped off her tongue sounding breezy and polite, and not at all imbued with a heart’s worth of pent-up emotions.
“Fine,” Piers answered. Then he added, “I think.”
“You think?”
“I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. He’s been in training again.”
“Oh. He has a bout scheduled, then?”
“It would seem so.”
A prickle of anticipation ran up her spine. “Is it with Dubose? Is he fighting to regain his championship?”
“I don’t know. But I just had a notice the other day . . .” He riffled through a stack of papers on his desk until he found the one he sought. “Ah. Here it is.”
Then he held it out to her—a broadsheet, emblazoned with Rafe’s likeness.
Lord, just seeing his picture felt like having his big, boxer’s fist reach straight into her chest and wring her heart.
Her eyes skipped over the energetic prose of the broadsheet. “Rafe Brandon . . . the Devil’s Own . . . the match of his life . . . behind the Crooked Rook in Queensridge . . . the hour of—”
Oh, heavens.
She waved the paper at Piers. “This is happening today, ten miles outside London. It’s due to begin in just a few hours.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why are you here? You’re not going to watch him?”
“I . . . hadn’t planned on it.”
“But you must.” Clio rose from her chair. “You have to be there.”
Ever the proper gentleman, Piers stood when she did. “I don’t see why . . .”
“You must go,” she repeated firmly. “Piers, he sent this broadsheet to you for a reason. You’re his only family. He wants you there.” She saw his hat hanging on a hook on the wall, and she jammed it on his head, then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the chair. “We’re going, the two of us.”
“The two of us? Absolutely not. A prizefight is no place for a gentlewoman.”
“Neither is a brewery or Parliament, I’m told—and yet I’ve visited both already this morning. Hurry. We’ll make it just in time, but only if we leave now.”