Lord. His rigid abdominal muscles were mortared bricks beneath her sprawled thighs, and his nostrils flared like those of an enraged bull. She had the best of him for this one moment, but he would have no difficulty flipping their positions if he wished.
“We had a bargain,” she whispered. “I trusted you. I did everything you asked. I tried on those humiliating gowns. I . . . I bared myself to you, in every way.”
His gaze made a bold sweep of her body, then settled on her breasts. “You did, didn’t you? You let me put my big, rough hands all over you.”
“Yes. And all I’ve been able to think about is letting you do it again. I want you, Rafe.” She pounded the flat of her fist on his chest. “How can I make you see? I dream about your touch. I feel a pang in my heart whenever you’re near. It only gets worse when you’re far away. And I don’t . . .”
Her words trailed off. In her mind, she heard her own voice echoing. It was a chorus of one word, over and over: I . . . I . . . I . . . With the occasional trill of Me-me-me.
Could she be any more selfish? She was here confessing her feelings about Rafe, but she wasn’t giving a thought to Rafe’s emotions at all.
“And I don’t love Piers,” she continued, feeling a heavy realization fall in place. “But you do.”
His chest rose and fell.
“You love him, don’t you?”
He didn’t say yes. She didn’t expect he would. He had too much of the Granville disposition for that.
Instead, he released a gruff sigh and said, “He’s my only brother.” As if that explained everything.
And it did.
She was a fool not to have seen it earlier. That’s what this week was about. Not Rafe’s career. Not his convenience.
No matter how much had happened, no matter how he tried to disclaim society, the bonds of blood still meant something to him. Judging by his expression, they meant a great deal.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” She gave his chest a playful push. “Men. I have to come into your room, seduce you in your sleep, tackle you to the mattress . . . and only then will you admit to caring for your own brother.”
He relented. “I just can’t take his bride from him. Not after everything else.”
“Everything else?” She moved to the side, releasing his arms. “What else did you take? Even if you’ve made some bad investment or lost a part of the fortune, I doubt that Piers will blame you.”
“If only it were that simple.” He struggled up on his elbows. “I took his father, Clio. I was responsible for the marquess’s death.”
It was clear they needed to talk.
But if Rafe was going to manage this conversation, it needed to happen somewhere less bedlike. And they needed to be wearing more clothes.
By the time he stumbled into the kitchen a quarter hour later, dressed in an open-necked shirt and loose trousers, Clio was waiting for him.
She’d plaited her hair, cinched her dressing gown tight, and laid the counter with candles and a few refreshments. A midnight picnic for two.
Were the circumstances different, it would have been romantic. Tonight, he felt like a condemned man settling down for his last meal.
He surveyed the table. “Cake. And beer.”
“Thanks to you, we’ll be eating cake for a month or more.” She dipped her finger in the icing and tasted it. “This one’s gooseberry. The tartness should complement the anise notes in the porter.”
The anise notes? In the porter?
“Who taught you all this?”
“I learned on my own. When I first started considering the brewery plan, I asked the cook to order in a firkin of every beer, porter, ale, and stout available. My ‘finishing’ included instruction on selecting wines. I took to it. It turns out, beer isn’t that different.” She pulled an inch of reddish brown porter into her glass and held it to her nose. “This one’s nice and malty. A hint of cocoa. Here, try.”
She handed it to Rafe, and he took a sip. It tasted like porter. Excellent porter, but . . . porter. Malty, to be sure. All porter was malty. Whatever hints of cocoa and notes of anise were in it, they eluded his detection.