Probably because he’d never made the effort to tell her.
It was so ironic. As a youth, he’d never felt he belonged. Now the older he grew, the more he could see the Brandon traits he’d inherited. Qualities like ambition, and pride, and the stubborn refusal to admit any feelings until it was too damned late.
He tamped down the futile swell of anger. The past was decided. There could be no changing it.
Nor would there be any changing him.
He couldn’t be the man Clio needed. Even if he returned to society, scandal would always follow him. It wasn’t merely the gossip. He was formed now, set in his ways—for good or ill. There was too much restlessness in his mind, and his body craved constant action. He wasn’t suited to the life of a gentleman, and he didn’t want to be. He could never be one of those useless, preening prats like Sir Teddy Cambourne.
Rafe simply didn’t know how to do nothing.
Which was why, now that he’d finally read all these missives, he couldn’t sit idle another moment. He owed her a debt much larger than a dance. Even if he couldn’t be the man she needed, Rafe needed to do something.
He stood, gathering the letters and envelopes one by one. When piled, they made a stack as thick as his wrist. Over the years, she must have invited him to hundreds of dinners, parties, balls.
The least he could do was show up to one, and somehow make it worth all the rest.
He rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness from his arms and legs. It wasn’t too late. He had an hour or two of waning daylight. A few suitable items of clothing in this trunk. He couldn’t dash off penniless, however.
He went to the bar to retrieve his money. “Sorry, old friend,” he told O’Malley. “The bout will have to wait for another day.”
Rafe reached for the purse.
“Not so fast.” Finn O’Malley’s big hand clapped over his. “You want that back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”
“I don’t think Lord Rafe’s coming.”
Clio had been holding the words back all evening, and now they slipped out. Here, in the quietest nook of the Pennington ballroom, where she and Phoebe had passed the last two hours. Waiting, watching. Punctuating the boredom by straightening the seams of her gloves or rearranging the drape of her rose-colored silk.
Every once in a while, an acquaintance made the pilgrimage to their remote corner to exchange greetings. They asked about Piers and the wedding, and practiced the art of the subtle-yet-unmistakable smirk. She could tell what they all were thinking: Will Granville this time, or won’t he?
But it wasn’t Piers and his absence that occupied Clio’s mind.
More than eight years after her debut ball, she was still waiting—in vain—for Rafe Brandon to claim his dance.
As they watched the ladies and gentlemen pairing up for a dance, Phoebe teased a bit of string from her pocket. “He’ll be here.”
“It’s half past eleven. Perhaps something happened to change his plans.”
She’d meant to seek him out earlier that day, make certain he meant to attend. She didn’t want Phoebe to be disappointed. But he hadn’t come down for breakfast, and then she’d been too busy with her sisters, preparing for the ball. By the time she went searching for him midafternoon, he’d already gone. Bruiser said he probably meant to meet them at the ball, but who could know the truth.
He could be back in that Southwark warehouse by now, carrying on with his life.
Or he could be thrown from his horse, lying injured in a ditch and using his last bits of strength to write her name in his own blood.
She really shouldn’t hope for the second scenario, but a horrible, selfish part of her preferred it to the first. He wasn’t here, and she couldn’t help but feel hurt. It dredged up all those all subtle insults.
You’re a good girl, Clio. But that’s not good enough.
They were joined by Sir Teddy, who carried two cups of punch, and Daphne, who brought them a delicate scowl. “Phoebe, I can’t believe you brought that string.”
“I don’t go anywhere without string.”
“Well, you can’t have a ratty bit of twine in a ballroom.” She plucked the string from Phoebe’s hand and cast it on the floor, where it was immediately trampled. “Tonight, we want people talking about Clio’s wedding, not your peculiarities.”
“I have more,” Phoebe said.
“Peculiarities? Oh, yes. You have no end of those.”
“String.” She reached into her reticule and brought out another length of twine.
“Give that here.” Daphne grabbed for the twine.
This time, Phoebe held tight. “No.”
“Leave her be,” Clio said. She was not in the mood to tolerate Daphne’s mothering.
For that’s what all this was. Mothering, as they’d learned it in the Whitmore house. Daphne thought she was being caring and protective, in her own strange, misguided way. But she was wrong.
Teddy clucked his tongue. “You’re making a scene, kitten.”
“I don’t care,” Phoebe said loudly. “It’s mine. You can’t have it.”
People turned. Stared. Around them, conversations withered and died.
This entire evening was a mistake, and it was all Clio’s fault. She should have protected her sister. Phoebe wasn’t ready for this. Perhaps she never would be.
“Leave her be,” Clio repeated.
“It’s for her own good, Clio. She has to break the habit.”
“For heaven’s sake, why? Let her keep her string, and her peculiarities, too. Let her keep herself.” She tilted her head toward the crowded, glittering ballroom. “We were brought up to care too much about what others think of us. It changed me. It changed you, too, Daphne. And I’m sad to say, neither of us changed for the better. I refuse to let Phoebe meet the same fate. She’s remarkable.”
“ ‘Remarkable’ is just the word. Everyone will be remarking.”
She turned to Phoebe, tucking the string in her sister’s hand. “I’m going to make a promise. To you, and to myself. I’m your sister and now your guardian, and I love you. I will never make you feel you must be someone else, just to please society.”
“Don’t be naïve, Clio,” Daphne said. “You can’t brush aside society. You’re going to be the wife of a diplomat, and a marchioness.”
“No, I won’t be. I’m not marrying Piers.”