He exhaled slowly. Goddamn him. Yes, she had.
Rafe had assumed she made the effort out of duty. Why else would a gentlewoman treat her betrothed’s estranged, disreputable brother in such fashion? All those holiday greetings, birthday wishes, invitations to family dinners . . . They had to be mere obligation, he’d reasoned. At best, they came from an essential sweetness in her character. Troubling her with unwanted replies seemed a poor way to repay the gesture.
But the gesture had meant something. He’d saved those notes and calling cards. Every last one. He didn’t pull them out and fondle them, or sniff them, or anything so stupid. But he’d kept them.
She made him feel more a part of the Brandon family than his own family ever had.
He didn’t know how to put that in words. Much less pen it in a note. When it came to feelings this strong, he only dealt in actions.
“You have it wrong,” he forced himself to say. “I don’t dislike you.”
“Oh, truly?”
“Truly.”
“Then do me a favor, Rafe.”
“Anything.”
God, yes. Please. Enough with this trial by prattle. Give me something to do.
She turned to face him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, just how eager you are to call me your sister-in-law.”
Bloody hell.
He cast a wistful glance at the stone floor below. Was it too late to plummet to his doom and make it look like an accident?
He could manage the first of her requests. He looked her in the eyes—her lovely eyes, the same blue as a cloudless sky—for a very long time. Without saying anything.
Outside, the rain beat down like a rebuke. His blood thundered in his ears.
“You can’t say it,” she whispered. “Can you?”
“Honestly? No, I can’t.”
Hurt flickered over her features. He wanted to punch a hole straight through the wall.
“Well, then. Good. Now that we know where we stand with each other, we can stop pret—”
Damn him. Damn him and his impulsive, reckless soul.
His hands were out before he could stop them. Reaching for her, pulling her close, turning her face to his.
Skimming a touch over her soft, trembling lips.
And holding her still for his kiss.
When his lips first touched hers, Clio was certain there’d been some mistake.
That could be the only explanation.
Obviously, Rafe had meant to put his wide, sensuous lips somewhere else—and she, being clumsy, had gotten her face in the way. How very embarrassing. How very her.
But . . . Then again, his big, warm hands did seem to be holding her face.
And those wide, sensuous lips were moving over hers, again and again, with something that felt suspiciously like purpose.
Good heavens. Rafe was kissing her.
And what was more shocking by half? By the time her brain put it all together, the rest of her was kissing him back.
Oh, Rafe. Yes.
She scarcely knew how, but it didn’t matter. He taught her the way of it, in much the same way he’d once taught her to angle trout in the stream. With practiced skill and gentle teasing, and a patience that belied his hunger.
They kissed tenderly. They kissed deeply.
They kissed as though it were right.
As though it made perfect sense. As if all the talking and not-talking and arguing and ignoring they’d done over the past eight years—no, so much longer than that—had all been entries on one long list of “Things We Do to Avoid Kissing.” And now that they’d reached the end of it, they had a great deal of lost time to make up.
They kissed and kissed, as the rain fell around them.
It was so absurdly romantic, Clio thought her heart would burst.
And sweet. So sweet. His mouth brushed over hers again and again, each kiss lingering a bit longer than the last. A cloud of breath and longing formed between them. Their own small, secret storm.
His hand cradled the back of her head, tilting her face to his. He drew her close to his chest and deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth with bold sweeps of his tongue. All Clio could do was cling tight.
Her senses opened wide to take in everything. The firm beat of his heart. The faster pulse of her own. His sweet taste, and the spicy wintergreen scent of his skin.
It intrigued her, that scent. Some kind of aromatic shaving soap, perhaps? It wasn’t cologne.
Curious now, she slid one hand to touch his jaw. Though it was barely afternoon, and yes—he had shaved that morning—the faint beginnings of whiskers rasped against her fingertips. She found the texture wildly exciting. So foreign to her, and so masculine.
So real.
To her surprise, he didn’t press her for more than kisses. Didn’t stroke or grope in any of the ways good girls were warned that wicked men would try to do. Oh, she could feel the power pulsing through his body, the need coiling hot and tense in his muscles. He wanted more. He wanted everything.
But he only kissed her. As though this were enough.
As though it must be enough, and God help them both if it wasn’t.
“The rain stopped,” he said, sometime later.
She nodded drowsily. So had the kisses.
His hands slid from her face. He turned his back to the wall and let his head fall against the stone with a soft thunk. “I’m a bastard.”
“If you’re a bastard, I don’t know what that makes me.”
“It’s nothing to do with you.”
Her chin ducked. “It isn’t?”
“Well, it is, of course. It’s a great deal to do with you. If I try to explain, I’ll make a hash of it.”
“Try anyway.” She waited, still cocooned in his scent and the warm, lingering glow of his embrace.
“I should have outgrown this by now,” he said. “I thought I had, curse it.”
“Kissing?”
“Envy. I always envied my brother. His playthings, his accomplishments. The praise he earned. From the earliest time I can remember, I wanted whatever was his.” His jaw tensed. “You were his.”
“Oh.”
He rubbed his face with both hands. “What the hell am I saying? You are his.”
Clio didn’t know quite how to take this. Rafe wanted her. He’d wanted her for ages, but not because he found her especially desirable or attractive. He wanted her because she belonged to Piers. Apparently, she could be a hideous, troll-faced lump, and it wouldn’t matter. He would still want to kiss her for hours in the rain.
That warm, lingering glow began to fade. Rapidly.
“This won’t happen again,” he said. “Ever.”