And now, when she’d made up her mind to stop chasing perfection . . . Here came Rafe and all his trunks full of dangerous, arrogant nerve.
You are so perfect for my brother.
Witty responses eluded her. All she could say was, “Don’t.”
“Rafe.” A breathless Montague burst into the room, carrying something in his hands. He didn’t seem to notice Clio where she stood at the head of the bed. “Rafe, these rooms are unbelievable. You have to see this chamber pot. I’ve eaten from plates that weren’t this clean.”
“Montague . . .”
“I’m in earnest. I’d lick this.” He turned the glazed pot over in his hands. “Dare me to?”
“No.”
“Because I’ll do it.”
“Don’t.”
Rafe and Clio spoke the word in unison. A mutual, primal cry of desperation.
Montague froze—tongue out, eyebrows up—finally taking note of Clio’s presence. He spoke without retracting his tongue. “Ah. Mih Wih-muh.”
“Mr. Montague.”
Montague thrust the chamber pot behind his back. “I was . . . just remarking to Lord Rafe on the exceptional thoroughness of your housekeeping.”
“Quite.”
Clio didn’t know what was going on with this Montague character, but she sensed that it gave her an edge with Rafe. And she needed any advantage she could get.
“I’ll leave you both to settle in,” she said, plumping the final pillow. “Dinner is at seven.”
Dinner was . . . long.
The first course started well, Rafe thought.
Which was to say, both he and Bruiser managed to use the proper spoon for the soup and didn’t overturn any tureens.
Then came that awkward moment when Rafe looked up from his empty bowl to realize everyone else at the table was only on the second or third spoonful.
Clio looked at him, amused. “Did you enjoy the soup?”
He peered at the empty bowl. “Pea soup, was it?”
“Jerusalem artichoke. With rosemary croutons, lemon oil, and a dollop of fresh cream.”
“Right. That’s what I meant.”
Rafe cracked his knuckles under the table. He’d always hated these formal dinners, from the time he was old enough to be allowed at the dining table. Food was fuel to him, not a reason for hours of ceremony. One would think a rack of lamb had graduated Cambridge or made naval lieutenant, for all the pomp it received.
“How many courses are you serving?” he asked, when the servants removed the soup and brought out platters of fish.
“It’s just a simple family dinner.” She lifted her wineglass. “Only four.”
Bloody hell. He’d rather fight forty rounds.
He could feel himself growing restless, and that never boded well.
Somehow he made it through the fish course, and then it was on to the joints and meats. At least the carving gave him something to do.
“So Mr. Montague.” Lady Cambourne eyed Bruiser keenly over a carved leg of lamb. “I assume you’re a barrister?”
“A barrister? God, no.” Bruiser forced down a swallow of wine. “Er . . . What would make you think that?”
“Well, the ‘esquire,’ naturally. It must be for something. So if you’re not a barrister . . . Either your grandfather was a peer, or your father was knighted. Which is it?”
“I . . . ahem . . .” He hooked one finger under his cravat and tugged at it, throwing Rafe a help-me-out-mate glance.
In return, Rafe gave him a you’re-on-your-own-jackass smile.
“Oh, don’t tell us.” Daphne sawed away at her beef. “We’ll guess. I suppose there are other ways of meriting the honor. There’s proving oneself of special service to the Crown. But aren’t you a bit young for that, Montague?”
He lifted that damned quizzing glass to his eye and peered at her. “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Ah.” Her lips curled with satisfaction. “So I see.”
“I thought you would.”