“There’s no need to apologize,” Rafe said.
On the contrary, he should be thanking the man. Stripey tigers notwithstanding, Cambourne had single-handedly yanked Clio from the brink of ruination.
Rafe pushed a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? The reasons he should leave Clio alone were stacked so high, he’d need Phoebe to count them. Nevertheless, he couldn’t keep his hands—or lips—off her.
A better man would have managed it.
But a better man wouldn’t have been so desperate for her touch.
“Can I help at all?” Rafe asked.
“No, no. We’ll be fine now.” Daphne herded her husband back toward their bedchamber. “Come along, dear. Back to bed.”
Phoebe yawned and returned to her room, as well.
“What shall I do with these?” Rafe still clutched the boots in his hands.
“I’ll see that they’re given to his valet.” Clio took them. “And you needn’t worry that he saw us. He never remembers anything of these episodes in the morning.”
“Has he seen doctors?”
She nodded. “There’s nothing to be done, short of dosing him with opiates every night. In that case, the cure would be worse than the condition. He truly has improved over the past year. It was more severe when they first wed.”
“It must be difficult for your sister.”
“Yes.” Her gaze slanted to the side. “But oddly enough, I envy her that difficulty.”
“Why?”
“Because it shows that theirs is a true marriage. This is what you’ve been failing to see all this time, Rafe. A wedding is more than staging the perfect event, or having everything that’s best. It’s two people vowing to stand by each other through everything that’s worst. It’s compromise and unconditional love.”
“That isn’t how marriage works in most Mayfair town houses. And I doubt Piers is expecting it, either. We all know that at this level of society, love is a luxury. Marriage is a contract. You agreed to your part.”
“That’s unfair.”
He knew it was unfair. She’d been far too young and raised to believe she had no other choice. Then Piers had left her dangling for years. And Rafe was hardly the one to talk about social obligation when he’d walked away from everything.
“Speaking of contracts . . . You struck a bargain with me, Rafe. And in two days, it’s done. You gave me your word, and I expect you’ll honor it.”
She turned from him and walked away, and there was nothing he could think to say.
A door creaked open, and Bruiser’s head popped into the hall, quizzing glass and all. “I say. Is there some commotion, what-what?”
“You can drop the act, Montague. Cambourne was walking in his sleep. It’s over now.”
Bruiser snapped his fingers. “Damn. I’d been hoping to show off in these.”
He stepped into the hallway, wearing a banyan of patterned silk and a nightcap with a peak that fell all the way to his knees. A gold tassel dangled from the tip.
“Got them at the same place I found my quizzing glass.” Bruiser tugged the fringed sash tight. “I’d been hoping for something to go bump in the night, so I could rush into the corridor and look high-class.”
“Then why didn’t you?
“Took me too long to put the dashed things on. I can’t sleep unless I’m naked as a newborn.”
Rafe scratched his head, as though he could scrub the image from his brain. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“That’s right, get angry. Stay angry. I can see it coming back.” Bruiser clapped him on the shoulder. “That hunger, that envy, that drive to prove yourself . . . It’s in your eyes. We’ll be champions again in no time. Just be certain to save it for the ring.”
“I’d be able to focus on my job if you were doing better with yours.” Rafe flicked the stupid tassel on the stupid nightcap. “What-what.”
“Oh, yes. About that. I didn’t have a chance to tell you earlier. You were with the doctors and the dog. But tomorrow’s the day we win her over.”