by Tessa Dare
Daphne dismissed this with a wave of her spoon. "We'll just have everything else written out and leave a space for the date."
Clio would have argued the point, but she was interrupted by a rattling commotion in the drive.
"Are you expecting a delivery?" Teddy asked.
"I ordered in more coal," Clio said. "That must be what's arrived. This castle is so drafty, even in the summer."
"Imagine what it would be like in winter." Daphne shuddered. "Freezing."
"Expensive," Teddy amended, lifting a forkful of kippers and eggs.
Her brother-in-law was right, and Clio knew it. Given enough wood or coal to burn, any space could be heated, but fuel required income. Her dowry, once unencumbered, could support her for some years. But if she meant to live in Twill Castle indefinitely, she would need to make the brewery profitable.
The operations were just a matter of time and investment. Winning over the farmers would take some work. Earning the custom of the tavernkeepers, however? That required more strategy. She would need to cultivate a reputation for quality, a consistent production schedule. And most of all, a memorable name.
Castle Ale?
Twill Brewhouse?
None of the alternatives she'd dreamed up so far were inspiring.
Phoebe spoke up. "Since Lord Rafe is out, I was thinking that we ought to use this morning for the eighteenth item on my list."
"Eighteenth item? Even including the ice sculptures, I thought there were only seventeen."
"We need to discuss the wedding night."
All around the table, forks, spoons, and teacups paused in midair.
Clio swallowed her mouthful of chocolate with difficulty. "What, dear?"
"Item number eighteen on the list of wedding preparations. Education in your marital duties."
Clio exchanged a desperate glance with Daphne, who showed no indication of having known of this beforehand. "Don't look at me," she mouthed.
"Our mother is dead," Phoebe said, in the same tone she would have used to explain simple arithmetic. "By rights, she would have been the one to give Clio this talk. Since she is unable, the duty must fall to us, her sisters." From beneath the table, she produced a few curled slips of paper. "I took the liberty of doing some reading. I have notes."
Oh, dear.
"Phoebe, darling. That's so kind of you, but I'm sure it isn't necessary."
Daphne quickly agreed. "If Clio has any questions, she can come to me. I am a married lady now."
"Yes, but you are married to an Englishman. And as Mr. Montague reminded us in the gardens, Lord Granville has been living on the Continent for some years. If she is going to keep her husband satisfied, Clio will need to be well versed in the ways of Continental women, too. I was able to locate a few books in French. They were illustrated."
Bad manners or no, Clio put her elbow on the table. Then she buried her laughter in her palm. "Truly."
"Yes, but they weren't very helpful. And the words they use are ridiculous. All this talk of folds and rods and buttons. Are we copulating or sewing draperies?"
At that, Clio was glad for an excuse to laugh aloud.
"In the end, I had to cross-reference my flora and fauna compendiums."
"Oh, kitten. You didn't," Daphne said. "Clio, whatever will we do with this sister of ours?"
Her face blank, Phoebe turned from Clio to Daphne and back again. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Clio assured her. "You are frighteningly brilliant and adorably well-intentioned, and I hope you will never change in either respect."
Each of her sisters could be absurd at times, and irritating at others. But Clio was protective of even their foibles and faults. Perhaps Daphne and Phoebe weren't always perfect sisters. But they were her sisters, and that was much better.
"I don't see what's frightening or adorable about it." Her youngest sister sat a bit taller and sifted through the papers in hand. "But I should hate for all this work to be for nothing. I've made a thorough survey of the mechanics and prepared some diagrams. Such as I could define them, I created a taxonomy of terms such as 'lust,' 'desire,' 'arousal,' 'climax.' For the emotions and sensations attached, we shall have to rely on Daphne's reports."
Clio's brother-in-law had been chewing the same bite of toast for several moments now. And with Phoebe's last comment, he choked on it.
"Oh." Phoebe looked at him. "I didn't mean to exclude you, Teddy. Did you wish to contribute something helpful from the male point of view?"
A red-faced Teddy promptly pushed back from his place and stood, abandoning a full plate of food. "I have a pressing letter to write. Upstairs." He swallowed. "Just remembered it. If you'll excuse me."
After a curt bow, the poor man was gone from the room so quickly, Clio could have sworn she heard a whooshing sound.
"That's for the best," Phoebe said. "Better if it's only females."
Daphne, who had buried her face in both hands for much of the conversation thus far, finally lifted her head. "We're not going to have this conversation, kitten. Clio's husband will be the best person to instruct her on the . . . er . . ."
"Mechanics?" Clio suggested.
"Yes. And as for the sensations . . . There's really no use in describing them. What feels nice to one person might leave another cold. It's best if she makes the discoveries herself. With the assistance of her husband, of course."
In truth, Clio had made a few discoveries without the assistance of any husband. She was twenty-five years old, and she had been in the possession of a mature body for some eight or nine of those years. She understood her body's responses to touch, and . . .
"Good morning." The deep voice rang through the breakfast room.
. . . and thanks to the man filling the doorway, she was now well acquainted with the meaning of desire.
"Why, Lord Rafe," Clio said. Because it seemed something must be said, and he'd left her at a loss. "You've returned."
"I've returned."
"Yes. You are. I mean, you have." Stupid, stupid. As Clio rose from the table, she glared at Phoebe, sending a silent big-sister message.
Stash those papers away. Now.
Rafe must have noticed the three of them looking guiltily from one to the other. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Clio said, much too hastily. "No, you didn't interrupt anything important. We were just discussing . . ." She felt her face go pink. " . . . draperies."
At the other end of the table, Daphne burst into giggles.
"Well, I'm glad I'm not interrupting anything important. Because I need a word with you, Miss Whitmore. If you'll come with me."
Bewildered, Clio followed him into the corridor.
He was so big, he nearly took up the entire passageway, and sheer virility filled any leftover space.
Her heartbeat quickened. "What is it? What's happened?"
"I've something to show you," he said.
"What is it?"
"You don't want to ruin the surprise." A boyish grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
Her body's reaction was immediate and intensely feminine. Had someone attached a thread to one corner of his mouth, then secured the other end to her nipple, the effect of that smile could not have been more direct.
"Shouldn't we wait for my sisters and Mr. Montague?" she asked.
His voice didn't drop, or sink. It plummeted down a mine shaft of manliness. "No."
Her giddy heart skipped a beat. Then two.
Oh, this grew worse and worse.
"Trust me. You're going to like this."
He tucked her arm through his and led her down the corridor. Clio sensed she would only embarrass herself by resisting, so she didn't.
And truly, how many times in her life would she have the chance to be on the arm of a man with . . . well, a man with these arms? Her fingers lay on his wrist, making no more dent than fallen leaves made on a rock. She could have believed him to be carved from stone if his heat weren't palpable through the layers of linen and woo
l.
Her senses exploded with memories of that kiss in the tower.
Perhaps they'd agreed to set it aside and never speak of it.
But that didn't mean Clio had stopped thinking of it. Dreaming of it. Wishing, against all logic or sense, that it could happen again. It was like this wanting had been inside her all along, just years of it building and growing . . . and now she felt the force of it hitting her all at once.
This was lust, and she understood the power of it now. Every part of her body thrummed with desire.
She knew nothing more could come of it, and yet somehow that knowledge did little to quell her imaginings. Quite the reverse.
"I can't imagine what your great secret could be. We've already decided on the venue, met with the vicar, and planned the breakfast for this imaginary wedding that's never going to take place. We've discussed bunting, bagpipes, peacocks in the garden . . ."
"Precisely. We've been wasting time on inanity. I decided to take matters into my own hands. This morning, we're going to have this done. The two of us. Alone."
"Alone?"
Oh, Lord.
He threw open the doors to the music room. Clio was relieved to see at a glance that it was full of people. They weren't too terribly alone.
"Pianoforte," he announced, indicating the grand instrument lodged in one corner of the room. The pianist seated at it poured out a stream of flawless, sparkling Handel.
"Harp," he said, pivoting them both.
In the center of the room, a serene-looking woman set her fingers to the harp strings, skipping up and down them in an intricate melody and finishing with a majestic glissande.
"String quartet."
In the far corner, a violinist nodded to his associates. The rich, warm harmonies of Haydn soon filled the room, delivered to her ears with unparalleled skill and in perfect tune. It felt like sipping chocolate through the eardrum, if one could do such a thing.
When final chord ended, Clio blinked, overwhelmed. Then she applauded them. "That was lovely. Thank you."
"So?" Rafe turned to her. "Choose one for the wedding. Or take all three."
"I . . ."
"Think on it," he said. "We can have them play more selections afterward."
"After what?"
He said, "There's more."
He led her through the connecting door, into the next chamber--the morning room. A heady perfume engulfed her at once.
"Oh, my."
Orchids. Lilies. Irises. Hydrangea. Roses in every color she knew, and some she didn't know could exist. Not only cut flowers, but aromatic herbs and potted bulbs that would bloom just this one day, then wilt. They covered every available surface.
Her morning room had been transformed into a hothouse conservatory.
"Oh, Rafe."
"I just told them to send everything best," Rafe said. "I don't know a damn thing about that language of flowers."
"It doesn't matter."
Clio didn't care about Daphne's floral ciphers, either. Nor Phoebe's botanical explanations. As far as Clio was concerned, flowers of any sort had just one message to convey.
They said, I care.
And this room was screaming it.
I care, I care, I care. Bouquets of consideration over here, pots of solicitousness over there. Thoughtfulness, blooming in every color of Nature's rainbow.
No wonder he'd been flashing that boyish, hand-in-the-biscuit-tin smile. Rafe had put so much effort into this display.
And it would be the best thing anyone ever did for her--if indeed it was done for her. But was it Clio he cared for, or merely his career?
Whatever it was, she was afraid it might be working. For the first time since the idea of wedding planning had been hatched, she found herself feeling a touch of bridal excitement. To walk down the chapel aisle before all her friends and family, floating on a glistening cloud of harp strings and clutching two dozen perfect hothouse blooms . . . ?
That would be something.
"Surely there must be a flower or two here that appeals to you," he said.
Was it her imagination, or did he sound anxious?
"I'm overwhelmed. They're all so beautiful." She walked through the room, touching petals here and there.
"Well, you can think on these, too." He caught her arm again. "What's in the next room can't wait."
"Did you say the next room? You can't mean there's more."
"Come see."
He led her to the connecting door on the opposite side of the room and opened it. They emerged into the formal dining room, and Clio was stopped cold by the sight that awaited them.
Cakes.
Cakes everywhere.
"You didn't," she breathed.
"I did," he replied, shutting the door behind them.
The entire length of the dining table--and the castle's dining table stretched to an impressive length--was laden with cakes. Of every conceivable variety.
Cakes iced with peaks of whipped cream and garnished with wild strawberries; cakes covered in rolled-gum icing and clever marzipan violets. Cakes cocooned in spun-sugar floss.
On closer inspection, Clio could see that a narrow slice was already cut from each, so that the flavor and filling were visible. As she walked the length of the table, she saw layers she suspected to be chocolate, spice, toffee . . . and various shades of light yellow that would no doubt prove to be vanilla, almond, lemon, pineapple, rosewater, and who could know what else.
"You brought these from Town? All of them?"
"I just went to Gunter's and asked for one of everything."
She shook her head. "They'll go to waste."
"Don't worry, we'll distribute the surplus to local cottagers or something. First, have a taste and choose your favorite for the wedding cake. Hell, choose three. Or ten. You can be the bride with a twelve-tiered cake, with cupids bursting from it the moment it's sliced, and all London will talk of it for years to come." He caught her gaze. "I know you've waited a long time, and you've had every right to feel impatient. But this wedding is going to be your day, Clio."
He stood tall and made a magnanimous sweep of his hand, as if he were a king ruling over Cakelandia. Just imagine, that gesture said. All this could be yours.
She understood his strategy now. He meant to overwhelm her with luxury, lavish choices upon her. If he piled on enough fantasy and spectacle, surely Clio would give in. A little cake waved under her nose, and she would give up all her dreams and plans to walk down the aisle instead.
She couldn't decide whether he failed to understand her, or didn't respect her. After their talk in the tower, she had hoped he might afford her a touch more credit.
Apparently not. All her plans for this place--and her own independence . . . Rafe thought she would trade it all for a twelve-tiered cake with cupids bursting out the top.
He took a slice of chocolate cake and dug into it with a fork. "Try this one first."
He extended the plate to her.
She looked at it. "No, thank you."
"Did you want to start with another?" He set the plate down and prodded an orange-colored slice with the tines of the fork. "I think this one's filled with apricot cream."
"I don't care to taste any of them."
"Come along. You have to choose one."
"Do I?"
"Yes. We had a bargain."
"Then let Daphne and Phoebe and Teddy choose for me. Or you do it. Cake is for the guests, not the bride."
He gave her an annoyed look. "I didn't go to all this trouble and expense just so someone else could select your wedding cake." He jabbed a fork into a lemon yellow slice and pressed the plate on her. "Taste it."
"I don't care for cake."
"Liar. You love cake."
"Who told you that?"
"You did."
"I did?" She didn't recall that conversation.
"Yes, you did. Years ago. The summers you spent at Oakhaven. I remember it clearly."
He was very near h
er now. Near enough that when he dug his fork into the slice of cake, she could smell the fragrance of lemon and hear the tiny ping of silver tines striking china.
He gathered a forkful and held it just inches from her lips.
"You," he said, "make cake sounds."
"Cake sounds?" she echoed. "What on earth are 'cake sounds'?"
"Just what they're described to be. When you eat cake, you make sounds."
No, she didn't. Did she?
He nodded. "Oh, yes. Sighs. Gasps. Breathy little moans. You . . . love . . . cake. Or at least you did, once. I know they've forced you to spend the past decade all pinned and buttoned and corseted and restrained. But I know"--he waved the fork before her--"you want this."
A flush crept up her throat. "Even if I do make 'cake sounds'--and I am not admitting that I do--it is most ungentlemanly of you to take notice of them."
"I'm sure it is. But I'm not known for my gentlemanly behavior."
No, he wasn't. Rafe Brandon was a black sheep. A hotheaded rebel. The Devil's Own. He was known throughout England for being quick, crude, strong, dangerous.
And tempting. Devilishly, irresistibly tempting.
She swallowed. Not audibly, she hoped. "I don't make cake sounds. Not anymore."
"Then have a bite and prove me wrong." He lifted the fork again. When she hesitated, he said, "It's just one tiny little bite of cake. What are you afraid of?"
You. Me. Cake. Piers. Marriage. Spiders.
Everything.
"Nothing," she lied.
There was no use in explaining it. He had no idea what he was asking of her. He couldn't possibly understand.
"Then have a piece."
"You won't give up on this, will you?"
He shook his head no.
"Very well." She took the fork from his hand and stuffed the bite of cake in her mouth.
Chew, she told herself. It's only one bite. Chew, swallow, be done with it.
But . . .
But the man was right, drat him. She did love cake. And this wasn't mere cake, it was . . . bliss. Like a wisp of sugary, velvety cloud on her tongue, melting into a lemon mist that teased and delighted.
She couldn't help it. As she swallowed, a helpless moan of pleasure rose in the back of her throat. "Mmm."
"What did I tell you? You make cake sounds."
Clearing the sweetness from her throat, she shook her head in protest. "That's not fair! That's not mere cake, it's . . . It's sin on a plate. Whoever baked it has surely bargained with the Devil."
Rafe chuckled.
"I mean it. No one could taste this cake and fail to make cake sounds. You try it. You'll see."