“You’re going to beat him, Rafe. I know you will. You’re the strongest and bravest man I know, and you have the most heart. You supported my dreams. I believe in yours. Go get your title back.”
He was quiet as he stared at the paper.
For interminable moments.
“Could you . . .” She swallowed nervously. “Could you say something? Or do something? Anything, really. I feel quite alone right now.”
He brushed aside a stray lock of her hair, and the sensation made her breathless all over again. She’d gone so long without his touch.
“You’re not alone. You never will be.” Folding the paper, he added, “I think Champion Pale Ale is a fine name indeed. It’s only . . . we’ll have to ask Jack Dubose to endorse it.”
“No, no. You’ll endorse it. You’re going to beat Dubose today.”
“That would be difficult, seeing as he’s not here.”
She didn’t understand. “But I saw the broadsheet. It said, ‘Witness Rafe Brandon meeting his most formidable opponent yet. The match of his life.’ Who else could that be, but Dubose?”
That boyish grin tugged at his lips. “Who indeed?”
Clio was so confused. She stepped back and turned in a circle, for the first time taking a proper survey of the area. The space was wide and open, and she couldn’t see Rafe’s opponent anywhere. The onlookers appeared to be remarkably well-groomed for a prizefight, and . . .
Goodness. How odd. Was that her cousin Elinor? What on earth could she be doing at a prizefight?
“Where’s the ring?” she asked, turning back to him. “There’s no ring.”
“Oh, there’s a ring. I have it right here.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a band of shining gold, balanced between his enormous thumb and forefinger.
A lump formed in Clio’s throat as she stared at it. Three lovely, soft green emeralds surrounded by smaller diamonds.
“You said your favorite color is green. I hope that was one of the truths.”
“This is for me?”
“It’s all for you. The ring. The guests. The broadsheet. Sorry, but I thought you’d suffered through enough of these preparations already. And I didn’t have the patience for proper invitations.”
Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to understand him. “This isn’t a prizefight at all. It’s a wedding.”
He nodded. “Ours, I hope.”
Oh. Oh, this man.
The air went out of her. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“You did say you wouldn’t mind a wedding in the middle of a field. Just so long as you loved the man you were marrying.”
And she did love him. She loved him so much, it hurt to breathe.
She cast a glance at Piers, who’d only just caught up. “You knew,” she accused him. “You knew the whole time. You truly are devious.”
The man shrugged. “I did owe you a wedding, after all that.”
“Believe me, you don’t know the half of his deviousness,” Rafe said. “We’ve been working on this for weeks now. He helped plan everything.”
Piers said, “That’s the duty of the best man.”
The two shared a look of fraternal conspiracy. If Clio hadn’t been so overjoyed to see them getting along as brothers, she would have tweaked their ears for torturing her this way.
“But what about prizefighting? The championship?”
“I’m not done with fighting,” Rafe said. “But Bruiser’s been negotiating with Dubose’s second. We might decide we can make more money with an exhibition.”
“An exhibition?”
“A series of them, more like. Champion versus champion. They’d be real fights, but legal ones. Conducted in proper arenas. With more rules and gloves, so it’s less dangerous.”
Clio liked the sound of this. “And would this series of exhibition fights need a sponsor? An up-and-coming brewery, perhaps?”
“It just might.” He cocked his head, indicating the nearby inn. “Now, go on. Daphne and Phoebe are inside with your flowers and gown. The wedding breakfast is waiting, too. Bruiser planned it, so brace yourself for the worst. But I did personally arrange for the cake.”
“What kind of cake?”
He leaned close and nuzzled her ear. “All the kinds of cake.”