He withdrew his hand, and the door slid shut.
Chapter Fourteen
We must discuss the ice sculptures,” Daphne said later that evening.
“Must we?”
The three Whitmore sisters had gathered in Clio’s sitting room to dress for dinner. Just like the times when they were younger. Phoebe sat at the dressing table while Clio brushed out her hair. Daphne lay on her side, draped across Clio’s bed. With one hand, she flipped the pages of a ladies’ magazine, and with the other she plucked raspberries from a bowl.
Despite Phoebe’s trouble in the village and Daphne’s insulting trick with the too-small gowns, Clio needed her sisters close this evening. She couldn’t explain it except to think that sometimes the devil you knew was easier to face than the devil who’d pressed you to a bedpost and rolled your nipple under his thumb.
“I was thinking perhaps a sculpted pair of famous lovers,” Daphne suggested. “What about Romeo and Juliet?”
“That ended badly,” Phoebe said. “One poisoned, one died by dagger.”
“Cleopatra and Marc Antony?”
“Even worse. One snakebite, one sword.”
“Lancelot and Guinevere, then.”
“He died a hermit. She became a nun.”
Daphne sighed, exasperated. “You ruin everything.”
“So I’m beginning to understand.” Phoebe handed Clio a hairpin. “But this time, it’s not my fault. Forbidden love affairs never turn out well in stories.”
Clio held her tongue as she twisted her sister’s dark hair into a simple chignon.
Phoebe was right. Nothing good would come of this . . . this whatever it was between her and Rafe. She couldn’t precisely call it a love affair. The word love had never been uttered, and they hadn’t done anything so irreversible that it couldn’t be brushed aside.
But she didn’t want to brush it aside.
She wanted to clutch it tight and never let go. The way he’d held her so tenderly . . . The security and exhilaration she felt in his embrace . . . She wanted that. She wanted more. She wanted him to be thinking about her just as often as she thought about him.
Which was, to estimate it roughly, with each and every breath.
He had to sign those papers, without delay. He simply must. To ease her conscience, if nothing else. Piers might not have treated her with any particular tenderness, and perhaps their engagement was a mere formality—but it had to be wrong to drop your frock for one man while still officially betrothed to another.
“If you want famous lovers, there’s always Ulysses and Penelope,” Phoebe suggested. “She stayed faithful for twenty years while her husband traveled the world to return to her.”
“Swans,” Clio blurted out, desperate to change the subject from long-suffering, faithful women. “Aren’t these ice sculptures usually swans?”
“Yes, but everyone has swans,” Daphne said. “They’re supposed to be romantic because they mate for life.”
In the mirrored reflection, Phoebe arched one slender eyebrow. “So do vultures, wolves, and African termites. I haven’t seen any ice sculptures of them.”
Clio was about to remark that a termite mound sounded like just the thing, but there was a knock at the bedchamber door.
Anna entered, carrying an envelope. “A message has arrived for you, Miss Whitmore. The bearer is downstairs waiting for your reply.”
“At this hour? How mysterious.” She broke the seal and opened the letter. “It’s an invitation.”
And a welcome change of subject. It couldn’t have come at a better time.
Clio scanned the paper. “We’re invited to a ball. Tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow evening?” Daphne asked.
“Apparently Lord and Lady Pennington are in residence at their estate near Tunbridge Wells. They apologize for the short notice, but they only just learned we were in Kent.” She lowered the paper. “Well?”
“We must accept.” Daphne perked with excitement. “I haven’t been to nearly enough balls as a married lady.”
“Excellent. Then you and Teddy can go. I’ll stay home with Phoebe.”
“Clio, you must come, too. There will be gossip if you don’t.”
“There will be gossip if I do attend,” she said, moving to the escritoire. “That’s what I’m keen to avoid.”
“Yes, but this time it will be different,” Daphne said. “We can tell everyone about the wedding plans. Then they’ll know it’s really happening this time.”
Except that it isn’t.
“What about Phoebe?” she asked.
“Let her come, as well. It’s only a small country affair. She won’t dance, of course.”
“I don’t wish to go,” Phoebe said. “I’d be bored and out of place.”
“Yes, but that’s why you should come,” Daphne said. “So you start learning how to conceal it.”
Clio arrowed a glance at her sister. Not that it did much good.
“She’s sixteen years old,” Daphne said. “She needs some exposure to society.”
Even if she expressed it poorly, Clio knew her sister had a point. Sooner or later, Phoebe would have to develop the skill of interacting with people outside their family.
“I don’t want to go,” Phoebe said, turning on the dressing-table bench. “It would be a miserable ordeal. Don’t make me.”
“Oh, kitten. Daphne has the right of it. You will need to start moving in society soon, and a small, friendly ball is a good place to begin.” She tapped the envelope. “I won’t force you, but I hope you’ll choose to attend.”
Phoebe considered. “Is Lord Rafe attending? I’ll go if he does.”
“No,” Daphne objected. “He can’t. Montague would be fine. But we can’t have Rafe. Surely the Penningtons didn’t mean to include him.”
Clio bristled at her sister’s words. “The invitation is extended to me and my guests. He’s one of my guests.”
“Yes, but they didn’t know he’s here. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited us at all. Don’t suggest it, Clio. You were kind enough to allow him to stay here at the castle. He’s Granville’s brother; you haven’t a choice. But he’s not welcome in polite society anymore.”
An emotion flared in Clio’s breast, hot and volatile. She wanted to gather up Daphne’s casual disdain, shape it into a tiny ball, and give it a solid whack with a tennis racket.