For the love of God. Rafe couldn’t believe that thing was actually working. Had Daphne Whitmore always been this dim? He couldn’t recall. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been little more than a girl.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Montague’s origins aren’t important. My brother dispatched him to Twill Castle for a reason. To assist with the preparations for the wedding.”
“The wedding.” Daphne looked sharply from Bruiser to Rafe. “You’re here to plan the wedding? My sister and Lord Granville’s wedding?”
“The very one,” Bruiser said. “Lord Granville wishes for everything to be readied in advance of his return. So he can marry Miss Whitmore without delay.”
“But he’s due to return within a few weeks,” Daphne replied. “That’s not enough time to plan a wedding. Not a wedding fit for a marquess, at any rate. You’ll need invitations, flowers, décor, the wedding breakfast. A gown.”
“I think you’re right,” Clio said. “It can’t be done. Better to wait until Piers—”
Daphne held up a fork, gesturing for silence. “Improbable. But not impossible. You’ll need a great deal of help with the planning. It’s a good thing Teddy and I are staying on here at the castle. We should be glad to offer our assistance.”
“That’s kind of you,” Clio said. “But unnecessary.”
Damn right it was unnecessary, Rafe thought.
Clio didn’t need her sister’s help pulling together events on short notice. Clio had planned the old marquess’s funeral earlier that year, when he was injured and in no condition to help. Now she was managing this castle all on her own.
Hell, there were sixteen pillows on his bed, arranged like a Druid monument to her powers of organization.
Besides, these wedding plans were supposed to make her enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying Piers and becoming the Marchioness of Granville. That would be a great deal less likely with Sir Coxcomb and Lady Featherbrain meddling in everything.
“Miss Whitmore may have anything she wishes,” he said. “Anything at all. No expense will be spared.”
“Of course,” Daphne said. “Fortunately, I keep abreast of all the latest fashions, both in London and on the Continent. This wedding will be the finest England has seen in a decade. After dinner, we’ll start on a list of tasks.”
“I can start the list now.” Phoebe pushed aside the berries and custard a servant had just placed before her, withdrawing a pencil and small notebook from her pocket.
“We’ll need a location,” Daphne said. “Does the castle have a chapel?”
“Yes,” Clio said. “A lovely one. I’d been hoping to give you all a proper tour after dinner. The architecture of the place is—”
Daphne waved her off. “More boring stones and cobwebs. If they’ve been here for four hundred years, they can wait. The wedding plans cannot. I suppose there’s a curate or vicar in the neighborhood. Then there’s only the matter of a license . . . Someone will need to procure a special license from Canterbury.”
“I’ll do that.” Rafe would be needing excuses to leave the castle anyhow. What was the distance, some twenty miles? A good length for a run. Then he’d hire a horse for the return journey.
“We already have the wedding party in attendance,” Phoebe said, making a note, then immediately striking it through. “Daphne will stand up with Clio, and Lord Rafe will be the best man.”
At those words, his thoughts reeled to a halt somewhere on the outskirts of Canterbury.
The best man?
Out of the question. Rafe would be the worst man for that duty.
Abandoning her untouched custard, Clio rose from the table. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, ladies? We can leave the gentlemen to their port.”
A glass of port would have been welcome. As a rule, Rafe didn’t take strong spirits while training. He might reconsider that rule this week.
Then he caught Clio’s gaze, pleading with him over a sea of cut crystal.
On second thought, he decided against the port. There would be no reconsidering the rules. This was a week for the rules to be unbendable. No spirits stronger than wine. No indulgent foods.