He couldn’t find any words to describe it. He hoped the look in his eyes would convey the message. When a man admired a woman this intensely . . . surely it must be palpable.

Her eyes warmed. One corner of her lips lifted. And then, as if he’d called it into being, a wash of pink touched her cheeks.

Thank God. He hadn’t seen that blush since yesterday. He’d missed it.

“Really?” she whispered.

“Found it!” Cambourne came jogging into the chapel, breathless and looking smug. As always. “I knew there had to be one in this place somewhere. Took me all morning searching, and even straight through luncheon, but I finally found one.”

“One what, Teddy?” his wife asked.

The man held up a finger in a signal to wait, then disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he did so slowly. And with a great deal of scraping, clanking racket.

“It’s a ball and chain, see?” He laughed, demonstrating the clamshell shackle and rattling the iron links. “Now that’s what this wedding’s missing.”

And there—in the space of a moment—any small progress they’d made toward dazzling the bride disappeared.

“Have no fear, dumpling,” Cambourne said. “We won’t let him get away.”

Thank you, Sir Teddy Cambourne. You obnoxious prig.

“A ball and chain,” Clio said. “How amusing.”

She was forcing a laugh to be polite. Because she was kind, and she wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted. Even the man who’d just slighted her.

The earth had turned, and the shaft of sunlight had moved on, leaving her looking pale and small, draped in a tablecloth and clutching a soggy bouquet.

Rafe was furious. The brute in him was rising. He wanted to shake Bruiser, punch that smirking fop Cambourne in the jaw, throw Clio over his shoulder, and carry her somewhere else. Somewhere far away from all these fools who paid more attention to malicious gossips and scandal sheets than to the obvious loveliness—inside and out—of their own sister.

But none of that would help his cause.

She’d only given him a week to convince her. He couldn’t risk changing the subject. But if there was going to be any bridal excitement generated, it wasn’t going to happen like this.

His only alternative was clear.

“I have to leave.” With a curt bow to the ladies, he turned to make his exit. “Mind the dog while I’m gone,” he told Bruiser.

“You’re going?” Clio called after him. “Will we see you at dinner?”

He didn’t turn around. “No. I have business in London. I’ll be leaving at once.”

Chapter Eight

Where did Lord Rafe say he was off to again?”

“London.” Clio reached for the crock of currant jam. “That’s all I know.”

True to his word, Rafe had left Twill Castle in as little time as it had taken to saddle his gelding. Clio had watched his retreating figure from the window of her bedchamber.

And now, sitting at breakfast two days later, she hadn’t seen him since. She told herself not to worry. He was a grown man—an overgrown man, more accurately, and a champion fighter. He could handle himself in any situation. It would have been silly to spend hours sitting at the same window, scanning the horizon for any sign of him.

But she had done that, just the same.

She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, really. This wedding battle of theirs had begun to grow amusing, and mostly because the advantage was all hers. So far all of the wedding planning had been disastrous. Did he mean to forfeit?

If so, she hoped he would be decent enough to honor the terms of their original bargain. One week was what they’d agreed. If nothing else, he needed to return to sign those dissolution papers in a few days.

“We could work on the invitations this morning,” Daphne said, stirring sugar into her tea. “Then they’ll be ready to post the moment Lord Granville returns.”

Of course the rest of her family had no idea these wedding preparations were about to become irrelevant. Clio felt increasingly uneasy about the deception, but she didn’t dare mention breaking the engagement until those papers were signed. They wouldn’t understand. And by “they,” she mostly meant “Daphne.”

“We can’t start on the invitations,” Clio said. “We don’t even know the date Piers will return.”

Daphne dismissed this with a wave of her spoon. “We’ll just have everything else written out and leave a space for the date.”

Clio would have argued the point, but she was interrupted by a rattling commotion in the drive.

“Are you expecting a delivery?” Teddy asked.

“I ordered in more coal,” Clio said. “That must be what’s arrived. This castle is so drafty, even in the summer.”

“Imagine what it would be like in winter.” Daphne shuddered. “Freezing.”

“Expensive,” Teddy amended, lifting a forkful of kippers and eggs.

Her brother-in-law was right, and Clio knew it. Given enough wood or coal to burn, any space could be heated, but fuel required income. Her dowry, once unencumbered, could support her for some years. But if she meant to live in Twill Castle indefinitely, she would need to make the brewery profitable.

The operations were just a matter of time and investment. Winning over the farmers would take some work. Earning the custom of the tavernkeepers, however? That required more strategy. She would need to cultivate a reputation for quality, a consistent production schedule. And most of all, a memorable name.