Safe.
She led her sister toward a narrow, two-plank footbridge crossing a rain-swollen rill. They crossed it one at a time, holding their arms stretched to either side for balance.
“In time, I should replace this with a proper bridge,” Clio said. “But I rather like the charm of this one.”
She took the last bit of distance in a leap, then held out a hand to help Phoebe across.
Clio kept that hand in hers as they walked down a footpath between two fields—barley on one side, clover on the other. “What do you think of the place?”
“I like it as well as I like any place.”
“Would you like to live at Twill Castle?”
“Permanently?” Phoebe frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’d invite you to.”
“Won’t Lord Granville want to remove to Oakhaven?”
“Perhaps I can convince him to stay here. It’s closer to London.”
Her sister shook her head. “You’ll be newly married. He wouldn’t like having me underfoot.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because Teddy and Daphne are newly married, and they don’t want me underfoot. Daphne told me so. Aside from dinners, I’m not allowed to trouble them unless the house is afire.”
Clio gave Phoebe’s hand a squeeze, but she knew her sister preferred to be reassured with facts.
“I would always want you underfoot,” she said. “And as for Piers . . . well, he’s a powerful man, but even he can’t decide who stays in the castle. Twill Castle is mine.”
“Only until you’re married,” Phoebe pointed out. “Then the castle becomes his.”
“Perhaps I won’t marry him.”
Her sister halted in the middle of the path, and Clio stopped, too. The words had just erupted from her. She hadn’t planned them. But now she would find out how her family—at least one member of it—would react.
Phoebe stared hard into the distance.
“Well?” Clio prompted. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a bee droned nearby.
Her sister lifted one hand to shade her brow. “Is that Lord Rafe? Over there, by the fence.”
Clio shook herself, surprised by this sudden change in topic. Had Phoebe even heard her confession? There was no telling with her youngest sister. Sometimes she would make no note of something, then remark on it a day or a week later.
Clio peered hard in the same direction. “That’s Mr. Kimball’s farmland.”
On the other side of the clover field, a group of laborers were stacking flat rocks to repair a drystone field border. Except one of the laborers was nearly twice the size of the rest. When he turned to the side, she could recognize his profile across the field—but by then, her pulse was already pounding.
Her body knew his.
“That is Lord Rafe,” she said. “Yes.”
He saw them and lifted one hand.
“What on earth is he doing?”
“Mending a fence, it would seem.” Phoebe tugged her by the arm. “Come on, then. We ought to greet him since he waved to us.”
“He didn’t wave.”
“Yes he did.”
“He lifted a hand. He didn’t move it to and fro. That’s not waving.”
Nonetheless, they were halfway to the stone border and committed now. As they approached, Rafe slipped his linen-clad arms back into his coat sleeves and ran both hands through his hair.
He looked instantly marvelous.
“I should have worn a different frock,” Clio muttered.
“Why?” Phoebe asked.
“No reason.”
And there truly was no reason. It didn’t matter how she looked. Whatever it was between them . . . It wouldn’t come to anything.
It couldn’t come to anything.
And on some level, enjoying the attraction had to be wrong. Until he signed those papers, she was still—on paper, if not in her mind or heart—engaged to Piers. But she’d been waiting so long to feel even the slightest glimmer of this exhilaration. Who could tell when she would feel this way again?