“A castle?” He grunted as he cleared the bar again. Then he paused there, muscles tensed with effort. “Some crumbling pile on the moors with a mountain of unpaid taxes, I suspect.”
“No, actually. It’s situated in Kent and quite lovely. It was one of his personal properties. He was the Earl of Lynforth, if you recall.”
Good heavens, she was babbling. Pull yourself together, Clio.
“Ideal for a wedding, then.” His voice tightened with exertion.
“I suppose it could be. For someone. But I’m on my way there today, and I stopped by to—”
“Inform me.” Lift.
“Yes, and also—”
“To ask for money.” Lift. “I just told you, you’re free to spend as much on the wedding as you wish. Send the bills to my brother’s men of business.”
Clio squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Lord Rafe, please. Would you kindly stop—”
“Finishing your sentences?”
She suppressed a little growl.
He paused midlift. “Don’t try to tell me I got that one wrong.”
She couldn’t tell him that. Not honestly. That was the most galling part.
He went on, “As I said . . . I’m training.” Each phrase was punctuated by another lift. “It’s what prizefighters do. We concentrate.” Lift. “Anticipate.” Lift. “React. If it bothers you, try being less predictable.”
“I’m calling it off,” she blurted out. “The wedding, the engagement. Everything. I’m calling it all off.”
He dropped to the floor.
The air prickled around them.
And his dark expression told Clio, in no uncertain terms, he hadn’t predicted that.
Rafe stared at her.
This was not how his month was supposed to be going. He’d holed himself away in this storehouse to train for his comeback. When he met Jack Dubose for the second time, it would be the biggest bout of his life and the largest purse ever offered in English history. To prepare, he needed intensive physical conditioning, undisturbed sleep, nourishing food . . .
And absolutely no distractions.
Then who should walk through the door? None other than Miss Clio Whitmore, his most persistent and personal distraction. Of course.
He’d always been at odds with her, ever since they were children. He’d been an impulsive, rough-mannered devil. And she’d been the picture of an English rose, with her fair hair, blue eyes, and delicate complexion. Genteel and hospitable and well-mannered, too.
Just so irritatingly sweet.
In sum, Clio Whitmore was the embodiment of polite society. Everything Rafe had spurned at the age of twenty-one. Everything he’d vowed to dismantle.
And that had to be what made it so damned tempting to dismantle her.
Whenever Clio was near, he couldn’t resist shocking her proper sensibilities with a flex or two of brute strength. He liked to devil her until he turned her cheeks some new, exotic shade of pink. And he’d wondered, many times, how she’d look with that slick knot of golden hair undone, tangled from lovemaking and damp with sweat.
She was his brother’s intended. It was wrong to think of her that way. But outside a boxing ring, Rafe had never done much of anything right.
He pulled his gaze from the frothy white fichu edging her neckline. “I think I misheard you.”
“Oh, I’m certain you heard me correctly. I have the papers right here.” She unrolled a sheaf of papers in her gloved hand. “My solicitors drew them up. Would you like me to summarize?”
Annoyed, he reached for the papers. “I can read.”
Somewhat.
Like all the legal documents shoved in front of him since the old marquess’s death, the papers were written in hen scratches so tight and close as to be indecipherable. Just glancing at it gave him a headache.
But that one glance told him enough.
This was serious.
“These aren’t valid,” he said. “Piers would have to sign them first.”
“Yes, well. There is someone with the power to sign for Piers in his absence.” Her blue gaze met his.
No.
Rafe couldn’t believe this. “That’s why you’re here. You want me to sign this?”