“I doubt that.”
If today’s efforts didn’t impress her, he was running out of ideas.
Clio wanted compromise and love, and someone who’d vow to stand by her always. Rafe knew she deserved all that, and more. When he’d held her in his arms, he’d wanted to promise her anything.
But he could not sign those papers. He simply couldn’t.
“Two words, Rafe. Italian silk. Belgian lace. French modistes. Seed pearls, brilliants, flounces . . .”
“I’m no mathematician, but I’m fairly certain that was more than two words.”
“The gowns.” Bruiser gave him a punch on the arm. “There’s your two words. The gowns. They’ve arrived. And they’re magnificent.”
“I don’t know that gowns will be enough. Miss Whitmore is a gentlewoman of means. She’s donned her share of pretty frocks.”
“Not like these. I’m telling you, she won’t be able to resist. Cor, I’m tempted to wear them myself.”
Rafe opened the door to his room. “In case it needs saying: Don’t.”
“I won’t. Again.” He held up his hands. “Joking, joking.”
The next day, Clio woke early. It might be more accurate to say she scarcely slept.
She knew Rafe would be awake early, too. He always was.
She didn’t know how to face him so she took the coward’s way out. She washed and dressed, took breakfast in her room, then scrawled a few lines to a friend in Herefordshire and sealed the envelope, just to have an excuse to walk into the village.
At the last moment, Phoebe joined her. “I’ll go along. I need to buy string.”
“Of course.”
Clio knew her sister had an entire trunkful of string upstairs, but she grew anxious if she went more than a few days without purchasing more. Somewhere in Yorkshire, there was a string factory that thrived on Phoebe’s custom alone.
They hadn’t reached the end of the castle drive before Phoebe asked, “So what happened last night?”
“You know already. Teddy went walking in his sleep and caused a commotion. It’s happened before, and it’s sure to happen again.”
“I do know all that. I was wondering what happened before it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you coming out of Lord Rafe’s room.”
Drat.
Clio had feared that might be the case, and here was confirmation. She tried her best to remain calm. “Yes, so I did. We’d stayed up late with the dog to be certain he didn’t suffer any ill effects from the cake. Afterward, we were talking.”
“I see.”
“We had important matters to discuss,” she went on. “But the others might form the wrong impression if they knew, so please keep that between us.”
And please don’t ask for further explanations.
Her sister shrugged. “Very well. I won’t tell anyone. Although I don’t understand why any of the others should care about the two of you talking.”
No, Phoebe wouldn’t understand.
For all her intelligence, Phoebe was blind to human subtleties. She took every person at his or her word, as though she couldn’t conceive of a reason why anyone would bother to prevaricate.
Clio was terrified of what would happen when it came time to introduce her youngest sister to society. She could delay another few years . . . but they were granddaughters of an earl. Eventually, Phoebe must be presented. And unless Clio was vigilant in protecting her, the dragons of the ton would devour the poor thing alive.
But for this morning, she needn’t think of it yet.
The day was fine. The rain had ceased, for once. Yes, the ground was muddy underfoot, but the sun was steadily climbing in the sky. Clio threw back the hood of her cloak to bask in its warmth.
She loved this bit of Kentish countryside. It suited her. There weren’t any dramatic peaks or valleys. Just well-tended fields bordered by stone fences and hedgerows, with the occasional pocket of woods. From the turrets of Twill Castle, it looked like a quilt pieced in a dozen shades of green. Cozy. Comfortable.