He narrowed his eyes to a severe stare, in a frighteningly accurate impression of his brother. “You agreed to marry me.”
“I was seventeen then. Little more than a child. I didn’t understand that I have choices. And now that I do . . . I choose differently.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t love you, and you don’t love me.”
“A deeper affection will come with time,” he said. “And no matter how far I’ve traveled, you were never far from my thoughts. I do care about you.”
She swallowed hard. “And I appreciate that. I truly do. But it doesn’t change my mind.”
“Is there someone else?”
The question caught her unawares. Although she supposed it shouldn’t have. It made sense that Piers would ask it. But she didn’t know what Rafe would wish her to say.
“Answer me,” he said, forceful and commanding as any marquess. “I demand to know the truth. Is there someone else?”
“Yes. There is someone else. There’s me.”
His eyes flashed with surprise.
“There’s me,” she repeated. “I’ve spent a great deal of time alone these past eight years. I’ve come to know myself and my own capabilities. I’m resilient. I can withstand a little gossip. Or even a lot of it. I can inherit an estate and devote myself not only to its preservation, but its improvement. Because I’ve taken all those lessons and accomplishments that were supposed to make me the ideal diplomat’s wife—and I’ve made them my own. At some point, while you were roaming the globe, making treaties and dividing the spoils of war, I quietly declared my own independence. I am the sovereign nation of Clio now. And there will be no terms of surrender.”
Rafe was quiet.
“Well?” she asked.
He shrugged, noncommittal.
“Too melodramatic at the end? No good?”
“It wasn’t bad.”
“Not bad?” She grabbed the discarded pillow and bashed his shoulder with it. Repeatedly. “It was brilliant, and you know it.”
“Very well, very well.” Laughing, he seized one corner of the cushion and tugged, drawing her close. “It was brilliant.”
Clio’s heart swelled in her chest. His praise was . . . Well, it was better than cake.
“You’re brilliant,” he whispered. “If Piers doesn’t fall to his knees and beg you to reconsider, he’s a damned fool.”
Heat and desire built between them, quick as fire taking hold of dry grass. The sensation was so intoxicating. And so very cruel. All her life, she’d been waiting to feel this kind of passion—only to find it with the one man she could never, ever hold.
Discussing how to manage a troubled sister, sitting up all night with a dyspeptic dog, discussing secret pain over late-night cake and beer . . . These were the experiences that proved two people could make a life together.
Now it didn’t even matter what they felt for each other. Rafe loved Piers. He wanted the chance to be a good brother, and Clio didn’t want to take that away. So whatever this was they shared, the two of them—
Unless she meant to destroy his last chance at family, it could never be more.
“Can’t we just pretend to be other people?” she whispered. “For a few hours, at least?”
“I don’t want that. You don’t, either.”
Clio nodded. He was right, she didn’t want to pretend they were other people. She wanted to be no one but herself, and she wanted to be with him.
She wanted Rafe.
Not because he was dangerous or untamed or wrong but because this felt so right.
“You won’t be ruined,” a familiar voice announced.
Oh, God.
Rafe released her and stepped back. Clio clutched a pillow tight across her chest. But no matter how many feet—or pillows—separated them, they were alone and half-dressed in the middle of the night. No one could fail to see the truth.
No one, that was, except the person who wandered into the room.
In rambled Phoebe, with her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders and her nose buried in an old copy of The Times.