Warmest birthday greetings from all of us here at Whitmore House.
I’ve had a new letter from Piers, and I’ve taken the liberty of copying the parts that might interest you. We’ll be spending August at my uncle’s estate in Hertfordshire. If you find yourself passing through, do pay a call.
Nevertheless, Rafe went through letter after letter, note after note, reading every last word she’d penned from salutation to close. By the time he lifted his head and rubbed his bleary eyes, the sky was growing dark.
The notes were so brief on their own, so inconsequential. But when taken together, their weight was crushing.
When he’d walked away from Brandon House, his father had closed the door. The rest of his family and high-class acquaintances had shut their doors, too.
Everyone but Clio.
She’d reached out to him, again and again. Never letting him drift too far away. Ready to welcome him, whenever he might decide to appear.
She couldn’t know what that had meant to him.
Probably because he’d never made the effort to tell her.
It was so ironic. As a youth, he’d never felt he belonged. Now the older he grew, the more he could see the Brandon traits he’d inherited. Qualities like ambition, and pride, and the stubborn refusal to admit any feelings until it was too damned late.
He tamped down the futile swell of anger. The past was decided. There could be no changing it.
Nor would there be any changing him.
He couldn’t be the man Clio needed. Even if he returned to society, scandal would always follow him. It wasn’t merely the gossip. He was formed now, set in his ways—for good or ill. There was too much restlessness in his mind, and his body craved constant action. He wasn’t suited to the life of a gentleman, and he didn’t want to be. He could never be one of those useless, preening prats like Sir Teddy Cambourne.
Rafe simply didn’t know how to do nothing.
Which was why, now that he’d finally read all these missives, he couldn’t sit idle another moment. He owed her a debt much larger than a dance. Even if he couldn’t be the man she needed, Rafe needed to do something.
He stood, gathering the letters and envelopes one by one. When piled, they made a stack as thick as his wrist. Over the years, she must have invited him to hundreds of dinners, parties, balls.
The least he could do was show up to one, and somehow make it worth all the rest.
He rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness from his arms and legs. It wasn’t too late. He had an hour or two of waning daylight. A few suitable items of clothing in this trunk. He couldn’t dash off penniless, however.
He went to the bar to retrieve his money. “Sorry, old friend,” he told O’Malley. “The bout will have to wait for another day.”
Rafe reached for the purse.
“Not so fast.” Finn O’Malley’s big hand clapped over his. “You want that back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”
“I don’t think Lord Rafe’s coming.”
Clio had been holding the words back all evening, and now they slipped out. Here, in the quietest nook of the Pennington ballroom, where she and Phoebe had passed the last two hours. Waiting, watching. Punctuating the boredom by straightening the seams of her gloves or rearranging the drape of her rose-colored silk.
Every once in a while, an acquaintance made the pilgrimage to their remote corner to exchange greetings. They asked about Piers and the wedding, and practiced the art of the subtle-yet-unmistakable smirk. She could tell what they all were thinking: Will Granville this time, or won’t he?
But it wasn’t Piers and his absence that occupied Clio’s mind.
More than eight years after her debut ball, she was still waiting—in vain—for Rafe Brandon to claim his dance.
As they watched the ladies and gentlemen pairing up for a dance, Phoebe teased a bit of string from her pocket. “He’ll be here.”