Mama was determined her daughters would not fall victim to the same mistake. Daphne and Phoebe were naturally svelte, but Clio’s figure had always tended toward curves.
“My mother had this . . . Well, she called it a game. We started playing it just as soon as I’d been engaged to Piers. She would have my dinner sent up to the room on a tray. Each course on a separate plate. And then she would drill me on whatever we’d studied that afternoon. French grammar, Bavarian etiquette, the correct forms of address for Hanoverian royalty. She’d ask me question after question, and for each mistake I made, she took one dish from my tray, starting with dessert. Some nights, I made so many mistakes that I had no dinner at all. Only broth. Other nights, I had three or four courses. But I never managed to keep my dessert.”
“That ‘game’ doesn’t strike me as amusing.”
“There was one dinner I particularly remember. On the tray was a slice of toffee-nut cake. My favorite. I remember staring at it so intently, I could taste the browned sugar and the buttery walnuts. I was so careful as she quizzed me. I answered every question perfectly. No mistakes. I was giddy with victory. At last. And then, while I was sitting there simmering with triumph, she took that slice of cake from my tray.”
“Why would she do that, if you didn’t make any mistakes?”
“Because I was the mistake,” Clio said, not bothering to hide her emotions any longer. “I was wrong, just for being me. I was growing too heavy.”
Rafe cursed. “Your mother was a fool. Your sister, too.”
“My mother wanted the best for me. And I know Daphne means well. We’re family.”
“Just because they’re family doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you. It means they know how to cut deep.”
She didn’t answer.
“What’s more,” he said, “they’ve lied to you. Because you’re not heavy.”
“You don’t need to say that to preserve my feelings.”
“I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”
“But I—”
He sighed gruffly. “You asked for this.”
He braced one hand on her back, then slipped the other under her legs. And with one effortless motion, he swept Clio straight off her feet.
Into his arms.
His large, massive, all-the-words-for-big arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Proving a point.” He bounced her in his arms, and her stomach took a brief flight. “You’re not heavy. Not to me.”
Oh. Oh, mercy.
He took her breath away, the rogue. And for long, dizzying moments, he refused to give it back.
Clio was certain she’d never beheld a more handsome man in her life. She’d always known Rafe to be attractive, virile, dangerous, desirable. But from this close vantage, in the light of day . . . Her gaze skipped from the strong angle of his jaw, to the proud cut of his cheekbone, to the vibrant green of his eyes, framed by lashes dark as ink.
He was beautiful. Utterly, masculinely beautiful. She didn’t know how she’d never seen it before. She supposed he hadn’t let her close enough to see.
“Very well,” she managed. “Now that you’ve made your point, you can set me down.”
“Not a chance.” He adjusted her weight in his arms and began carrying her up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. “You’ll never get up all these stairs in that gown.”
“I’m not going to treat you like a beast of burden.”
“I might be a beast,” he said, pausing on the landing, “but you could never be a burden. Just tell me where to go.”
She relented when they reached the top of the stairs. “That way.” Then, as they reached a bend in the corridor, “Turn here.”
Rafe wheeled on his right boot, following her direction.
“My chamber is almost at the end. A little farther.” By now, she was enjoying this so much, she rather wished it were miles away. “There. The one on the right. Mind the doorjamb.”
He tucked her head to his chest and nudged the door open with his boot.
They burst into the room, and Rafe suddenly stopped.
Clio wondered if the image had struck him the way it had done her. How this must appear: Him, carrying her into the bedchamber. Her, dressed in an ivory lace gown.
They looked like newlyweds.
And there, looming before them like a raft of inevitability, was Clio’s four-post bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Holy God, that bed.
Rafe marveled at it. Four soaring, carved wooden posts. A canopy of emerald velvet. And pillows. Of course, there’d be pillows.
Row after row of them, in every shade of green.
They took up half the bed, all neatly ordered by size and shape. They made Rafe want to muss them. Send them tumbling to the floor, one thrust at a time.
He set Clio down at once.
“This is not how it was supposed to go,” he said. “We’ll order more gowns. Ones that fit properly. I’ll see to it myself.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She turned her back to him and lifted her hair from her neck. “Just let me out of this one.”
“You . . .” Rafe tugged at his neckcloth and cleared his throat. “You want me to remove your gown.”
Not just any gown, but a wedding gown. With that bed nearby.
“Undo the buttons, that’s all. I can’t breathe in it. I’ve learned to survive without a lot of things—cake, weddings, the respect of my peers—but I haven’t yet learned how to live without air.”
He hesitated, staring at the milky softness of her exposed nape and the row of tiny, silk-covered buttons that couldn’t possibly look any more innocent—and would cheerfully lead him straight into hell.
She braced herself against the bedpost with her free hand. “Please, Rafe. I’m starting to feel faint.”
With a silent curse, he reached for the top button. What choice did he have? He couldn’t allow her to suffocate. And as for him, he’d made his name on profligacy and bare-knuckle violence. He was already damned.
He struggled to grasp the tiny button between his thumb and forefinger without bracing his knuckles against her bare neck.
“Can you manage it?”
“I can manage it.” He gritted his teeth and willed his trembling fingers to be still. “It’s just that I broke this hand once, a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be sorry. Just be patient.”