“Yes.”
“Not going to happen.” He thrust the papers back at her, then walked over to the punching bag and gave it a booming right cross. “Piers is on his way home from Vienna. And you are meant to be planning the wedding as we speak.”
“Exactly why I hoped to have these papers signed before he arrives. It seems the best way. I’d hate to make an unpleasant scene, and . . .”
“And unpleasant scenes are my specialty.”
She shrugged. “Quite.”
Rafe lowered his head and threw a barrage of jabs at the punching bag. This time, he wasn’t putting on a display. His brain worked better when his body was in motion. Fighting brought him to his sharpest focus, and he needed that now.
Why the hell would Clio want to break this engagement? She was a society debutante, raised for advantageous marriage the way thoroughbred horses were bred to race. A lavish wedding to a wealthy, handsome marquess should be her fondest dream.
“You won’t find a better prospect,” he said.
“I know.”
“And you must want to get married. What else could you hope to do with your life?”
She laughed into her sherry. “What else, indeed. It’s not as though we ladies are allowed to have interests or pursuits of our own.”
“Exactly. Unless . . .” He held his punch. “Unless there’s someone else.”
She was quiet for a moment. “There’s no one else.”
“Then it’s the anticipation getting to you. Just a case of cold feet.”
“It’s not that I’m a nervous bride, either. I simply don’t wish to marry a man who doesn’t want to marry me.”
“Why would you think he doesn’t want to marry you?” He threw a right hook at the bag, then followed it with a left.
“Because I’ve looked at the calendar. Eight years have passed since he proposed. If you truly wanted a woman, would you wait that long to make her your own?”
He let his fists fall to his sides and turned to her, breathing hard. His lungs filled with the scent of violets. Damn, she even smelled sweet.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But,” he continued, “I’m an impulsive bastard. This is about Piers. He’s the loyal, honorable son.”
Her eyebrow made the slightest quirk. “If you believe the scandal sheets, he has a mistress and four children tucked away somewhere.”
“I don’t read the scandal sheets.”
“Perhaps you should. You’re often in them.”
He didn’t doubt it. Rafe knew the vile things that were said about him, and he took every opportunity to encourage the gossip. Reputation didn’t win fights, but it drew crowds and lined pockets.
“It’s not as though Piers hasn’t had reasons for delaying. He’s an important man.” Rafe fought to keep a straight face. Listen to him, singing his brother’s praises. That didn’t happen often. It didn’t happen ever. “There was that post in India. Then the one in Antigua. He came home between assignments, but then there was some delay.”
She looked down. “I was ill.”
“Right. Then there was a war to settle, and another after that. Now that all these treaties in Vienna are hammered out, he’s on his way home.”
“It’s not that I begrudge his sense of duty,” she said. “Nor how essential he’s made himself to the Crown. But it’s become abundantly clear that I’m not essential to him.”
Rafe rubbed his face with both hands and growled into them.
“My solicitors told me I’d have a case for a breach of promise suit. But I didn’t want to embarrass him. Now that I have Twill Castle, I don’t require the security of marriage. A quiet dissolution is best for all concerned.”
“No. It’s not best. Not at all.”
Not best for Piers, not best for Clio.
And definitely not best for Rafe.