He rose to his feet, letting his gaze sweep her one last time, from toes to crown.
By the time their eyes met, the flush on her cheeks had deepened to a ripe-berry hue. He smiled a little. Clio Whitmore’s complexion had more shades of pink than a draper’s warehouse. Every time Rafe thought he’d seen them all, he managed to tease out one more.
Just imagine teasing her in bed.
No, you idiot. Don’t. Don’t imagine it.
But as usual, his thoughts were three paces ahead of his judgment. The image erupted in his mind’s eye, as unbidden as it was vivid. Clio, breathless. Naked. Under him. Stripped of all her good manners and inhibitions. Begging him to learn her every secret shade of pink.
Rafe blinked hard. Then he took that mental image and filed it away under Pleasant-Sounding Impossibilities. Right between “flying carriage” and “beer fountain.”
He looked nowhere but her eyes. “We’ll send in our things, then.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“You haven’t said no.”
And she wouldn’t. They both knew it. No matter how much she disliked Rafe, no matter how much she wanted him gone . . . Her conscience wouldn’t let her turn him out.
Her little sigh of surrender stirred him more than it ought. “I’ll have the maids prepare two more rooms.”
He nodded. “We’ll be in once I’ve put up my gelding.”
“We have grooms to do that,” she said. “I was fortunate that all my uncle’s housestaff stayed on.”
“I always put up my own horse.”
Rafe walked his gelding toward the carriage house for a good brushing down. Whenever he came in from a hard ride—or a hard run, a hard bout—he needed a task like this to calm him. All that energy didn’t just dissipate into the air.
And tonight, he needed a private word with a certain someone. A certain someone who’d just up and declared that his name was Montague.
“What the devil was all that about?” he asked, as soon as Clio was out of earshot. “Who’s this Montague person? We agreed you’d act as my valet.”
“Well, that was before I saw this place! Cor, look at it.”
“I’ve looked at it.”
The castle was impressive, Rafe had to admit. But he’d seen finer. He’d been raised in finer.
“I want a proper room in that thing,” Bruiser said, gesturing at the stone edifice. “No, I want my own tower. I certainly don’t want to be your valet. Stuck below stairs, eating my meals in the servants’ hall with the housemaids. Not that I can’t appreciate a fresh-faced housemaid on occasion. Or, for that matter, a well-turned footman.”
That was Bruiser. He’d tup anything. “How egalitarian of you, Mr. Bruno Aberforth Montague.”
“Esquire. Don’t forget the esquire.”
Oh, Rafe was trying very hard to forget the esquire. “Miss Whitmore’s sister is here. That’s Lady Cambourne. Along with her husband, Sir Teddy Cambourne.”
“So?” Bruiser said. “I know you try hard to forget it, but you’re Lord Rafe Brandon. I have no problem speaking with you.”
“That’s different. I don’t answer to that title anymore. I walked away from all this years ago.”
“And now you’re walking back. How difficult can it be?”
More difficult than you could imagine.
Hell, Rafe was worried about feeling like an imposter, and he’d been raised on these grand estates.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re the son of a washerwoman and a tavernkeeper, who makes his living organizing illegal prizefights. And you’ve just inserted yourself with a class of people so far above your usual world they might as well be wearing clouds. Just how do you plan to pull this off?”
“Relax. You know me, I get on with everyone. And I have a new hat.”
Rafe looked at the felted beaver twirling on Bruiser’s finger. “That’s my hat.”
“At dinner and suchlike, I’ll just watch what you do.”