She laughed aloud.
“I mean it. All week long, you’ve had no difficulty arguing with me.”
“That’s different.” She gave him a confessional look. “I’ve never talked with anyone the way I can with you. You don’t agree with any of my ideas, but at least you listen to them and pay me the compliment of arguing back.”
He cast a bemused look at his porter. “We’ve been training you all wrong.”
“Training me?” Her eyebrow arched. “Like a dog?”
Rafe groaned. Not this again. “Not like a dog, like a fighter. Bruiser had this idea that we should go into wedding planning the same way he’d prepare a prizefighter for a championship bout. Get your head in the ring, boost your confidence. So you could imagine yourself victorious.”
“Well, that explains a few things. Like the compliments. And the kisses. And that ridiculous lie about Piers at my debut.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “So embarrassing. You only wanted to boost my confidence. And then tonight I—”
“And then tonight you were nearly ruined.” He pulled her hand away from her face. “I’ve always desired you. It’s one of the reasons I kept my distance. You’re too damned tempting, and it’s not in my character to resist.”
In response, she pushed a morsel of cake around her plate.
Surely she couldn’t doubt him on this. Even if she believed Rafe capable of deceit, she had to have felt his lust for her tonight. Every hot, steely inch of it.
On the other hand, considering that she’d received nothing but casual insults and neglect from her family, peers, and intended groom for the past several years . . . to the point of being starved into illness . . . Rafe supposed a little dirty talking and a prod in the soft bits might not be the gesture of confidence she craved.
A lacy white gown probably wasn’t the answer, either.
Damn. Rafe had never been any kind of scholar, but this week, he’d truly been an idiot.
I want a challenge, she’d told him. Something that’s mine.
She was already a fighter. He should have recognized it from the first. She couldn’t have survived these past eight years if she didn’t have a champion’s heart. But she didn’t want to win at “Mother’s game,” any more than Rafe wanted to be world champion of lawn bowls.
She wanted to define her own success.
“So that grand wedding of every girl’s dreams,” he said, “where you float down the aisle like an angel and prove all the gossips wrong. That isn’t the victory you’re wanting.”
“No. It isn’t.”
He nodded. “Then finish your cake and porter. And we’ll see about toughening you up.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clio hadn’t the faintest idea what Rafe had in mind. They took lamps in hand and moved to the drawing room, where he cleared the small tables and chairs to make an open space.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to teach you to throw a punch.”
She laughed. “You want me to punch your brother?”
“No.” He pushed a settee toward the wall.
“Then I don’t understand why this is relevant.”
“I know you don’t. But give it a chance. The time for politeness is over. You need to get meaner, Clio. Understand the power in your body and how to harness it.”
“Power?” She lifted her delicate arm for his appraisal. “Do you see any power in this body?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You mean the power to draw a man’s gaze, perhaps. Apparently that never worked on Piers.”
“I mean strength. It’s in there, just waiting to be unleashed.” Having cleared the last of the furniture, he came to stand before her. His gaze homed in on hers. “Trust me.”