“Anything lovely can be made lovelier,” Daphne said. “Don’t you recall what Mother always said?”
From the look on Clio’s face, she did recall whatever it was their mother always said—but not with any particular fondness.
Bruiser cleared his throat for attention. “Right, then. Carrying on. The chapel will be lovelier. And Miss Whitmore will be the most lovelier part of all.”
“ ‘Loveliest,’ Montague,” Daphne corrected.
“Yes, of course. Loveliest.”
Clio looked doubtful. If not miserable. And Rafe knew he was to blame. He’d been an idiot yesterday, kissing her, then telling her it was nothing. Hardly the way to increase a woman’s confidence.
He pulled Bruiser aside. “This isn’t working. You said you could make her excited about the wedding. You promised dazzle.”
“She’ll be dazzled, Rafe.”
He took another glance at Clio. “I’m not seeing it yet.”
“Give it a moment, will you?” Bruiser went to Clio’s side and gently steered her to stand at the end of the aisle. “Just imagine, Miss Whitmore. The rows filled with your family and closest friends. Even better, your vilest enemies. All of them waiting, in breathless anticipation, for you to make your grand appearance.”
“My grand appearance?”
“Yes. In a flowing gown with an exquisite lace veil.”
In the chapel’s small vestibule, there was a narrow table with a lace runner and a small vase of flowers. Bruiser whisked the lace runner from the table and tucked it into Clio’s upswept hair, creating a makeshift veil to cover her face.
Rafe could see her smiling behind it. Smiling at the absurdity, no doubt—but any smile was better than the morose expression she’d been wearing all morning.
“And a bouquet.” Bruiser plucked the flowers from the vase and put them into her hands. “There now.”
She held them away from her body. “They’re dripping.”
“Never mind that. Imagine a velvet carpet spread out before you, strewn with rose petals. And your sisters will precede you as you walk down the aisle.” Bruiser moved first Daphne, then Phoebe into place in front of Clio. “Go stand at the other end, Rafe. Just to the side of the altar. That’s where your place will be.”
Good God. Not this “best man” nonsense again. If there’d been any doubt about Rafe’s unsuitability for that post, his behavior in the tower yesterday should have erased it.
Nonetheless, Rafe did as he was asked, moving to stand just to the side of the altar. For once, Clio seemed to be enjoying the wedding idea. He wasn’t going to ruin that.
“A vicar,” Bruiser muttered to himself. “We need a vicar. Someone solemn, dignified, wearing a collar . . . Aha.”
He plucked Ellingworth from the carpet and lugged him up to the altar, depositing the old, wrinkled bulldog in the place where a vicar would stand. With a wheeze, the dog sank to rest on his belly, head between his two front paws. His wrinkled jowls pooled around his black nose.
Daphne said, “Now all we’re missing is a groom.”
“A sadly familiar sensation,” Clio replied.
“Not to worry. We can remedy that, Miss Whitmore.” Bruiser dashed behind Rafe and prodded him forward, toward the center. “Rafe will stand in for Lord Granville. I’ll be best man.”
“What?” Rafe muttered under his breath. “No. I’m not playing the groom.”
“You’re his brother,” Bruiser whispered back. “You’re the logical choice. I can’t very well send her down the aisle to kiss Ellingworth, can I?”
Rafe cast a glance around the chapel. What the devil had happened to Sir Teddy Cambourne? The man was always where he wasn’t wanted and never around when he might be useful.
“Next,” Bruiser said, “the orchestra will strike up the processional.”
“I don’t know where you mean to fit an orchestra in this chapel,” Clio said from somewhere beneath her tablecloth.
“They’ll squeeze in somewhere.”
“Really, the organ would be good enough.”