“They say he’ll live.”
“Oh.” She released the breath she’d been holding. “That’s good to hear. I’m so relieved. You must be, too.”
“He seems to be sleeping soundly now. The veterinarian will stay with him, so I’m going up to bed.” He turned his head in both directions, then glanced upward, too. “Which way is my bedchamber, again?”
She picked up the candle from the table. “I’ll walk you there.”
He hooked his coat on one finger and slung it over his shoulder. They ambled down the corridor, side by side.
“The good news is, they’ve given him a dose of some purgative. The ring should”—he cleared his throat—“appear within a few days.”
Clio shuddered. “I’ll never put that ring on my finger again.”
“Yes, you will. I just told you, the veterinarian says it will only take a few days. That’s good news. You’ll have it back before Piers returns.”
She turned and blinked at him. “Be that as it may, Rafe. I’ll never put that ring on my finger again.”
“We’ll wash it.”
“Not because of where it’s been,” she said. “Well, partly because of where it’s been, but mostly because I’m not going to marry Piers.”
He sighed. “This would never have happened if you’d just tasted the cakes.”
“It would never have happened if you’d respected my wishes and signed the dissolution papers days ago.” Clio took a moment to compose herself. “But let’s not quarrel now. The important thing is, the dog is well.”
“Yes.”
They mounted a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, Rafe spoke to her again, more gently. As if he’d left his impatience and hard feelings at the bottom of the staircase.
“I should thank you for keeping watch with me. Again.”
“Again?”
“I never told you what it meant. Never properly thanked you at all, and that’s my fault. When the marquess died, you were a true help.”
“I didn’t do anything, really.”
“You were there. You made the arrangements for the funeral and answered the calls. You brought that little basket of . . . biscuits or something.”
“Muffins. They were muffins. Your father died, and I brought muffins.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am a muffin. Warm and bland and nice enough, but nothing to get excited about.”
“Nothing to get excited about. Right. That’s you, Clio. Do me a favor, will you? Tell that to my—”
Her pulse stuttered. She could imagine too many endings to that sentence, some of them lewd and others heart-wrenching. “To your what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Drat.
“I’m just glad Ellingworth will be well in the end,” she said. “I didn’t realize how much you cared for the poor old dear.”
“I don’t, really. It’s just . . . he’s not mine. He’s Piers’s dog. I can’t let something go wrong on my watch. I’ve had no choice but to take responsibility for the marquessate in his absence. But when my brother comes home, I mean to hand over everything in the same condition I received it. Then I’m done.”
Clio slowed to a halt in the center of the corridor. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh my Lord.”
Rafe stopped, too. “What? What is it?”
“I’m the dog.”
“What?”
“That’s it.” She turned to him. “I’m the dog. That’s why you’ve gone to all this trouble. It’s why you’re so bent on keeping me engaged. In your mind, I’m like the dog. I belong to Piers, and you’re not too attached to me—but you don’t want something to go wrong on your watch. You need to hand me over in the condition you received me.”
He opened his mouth to reply—then hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words.
Clio didn’t need any words. That moment’s pause told her everything she needed to know.
She’d pegged it absolutely right.
She was the dog.