He lowered his voice. “Tell me what’s happened. Now.”

“It’s nothing. I promise you.”

“Then open the door so I can see for myself.”

“Rafe, I’m fine. Please don’t mind me.”

“I mind you. You’ve been in there for ages. I heard you cry out. Your face is red. You’re scarcely able to speak. And there were thumps.”

“Thumps?”

“Maybe clunks.”

Her mouth quirked. “Clunks.”

“Noises.” His hand balled in a fist. “I heard noises. You’re visibly overset. Something’s going on in there. Either you open the door, or I break it down.”

That single blue eye widened. “You’d truly break down the door?”

“You saw me today in the tavern. If I thought you were in danger, I’d break through the wall.”

That single blue eye blinked.

She must know this about him by now. He enjoyed a bit of witty banter as much as the next man, but when his blood started pumping, he couldn’t bother with words. What came out of him was action.

“Very well. Since you insist.” She stepped back, opening the door. “See?”

Oh, he saw.

He saw a lot of her that he probably shouldn’t be seeing.

She was dressed in a gown of delicate ivory lace. However, the lace was fitted so tightly that it was stretched to the point of transparency. Her breasts overflowed the bodice in twin fleshy scoops, and . . .

And his gaze got rather stuck in the dark, mysterious valley between them. The rest of the gown could have been more lace . . . or tweed or crimson velvet. Or on fire, for all he knew.

“I . . . That’s . . .” He had no words. None that he could utter aloud.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she asked. “This is your idea of a wedding gown?”

“Not particularly. Or generally.”

That gown was entirely unsuitable for walking down the aisle of a church. However, when it came to the wedding night . . .

Damnation. His thoughts could not stray there. His gaze needed tethering, too.

Eyes, Rafe.

The other pair.

She said, “And here I worried you might succeed in overwhelming me with elegance and finery.”

“It’s not . . . bad.”

She leveled a gaze at him. “I look like I’ve been cast as an angel in the bawdy-house nativity play.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Someone has to get us sinners to church.”

“I can’t even move.” She took three stuttering steps in demonstration, waddling into the corridor like an arthritic duck. “The thump you heard was me falling over.”

“Twice?”

“Yes, twice.” She grimaced. “Thank you for rubbing salt in the wound.”

“Try another gown, then.”

“I did. I tried them all. They’re all too small.”

“But I thought Bruiser specially requested them based on your measurements.”

“I didn’t give him my measurements. And surely Anna would have . . .” Confusion drew little furrows in her brow. Then some sudden realization ironed them flat. “Daphne. Of course. This would be just the sort of trick she’d pull.”

“Why would she pull any tricks? I thought she was all aflutter about planning the wedding.”

“Oh, she is. This is just her way of reminding me that I . . .”

“That you what?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. I can tell it matters.”

A hint of sadness had crept into her eyes. It made Rafe want to break things. Then arrange the pieces in a barricade around her.

“There you are.” Daphne appeared in the corridor. “Oh, Clio. You do look lovely.”

Clio spoke through clenched teeth. “I look ridiculous. You gave Mr. Montague the wrong measurements.”

“No, I didn’t. I gave him just the right measurements.”

“But the gown doesn’t fit her,” Rafe said.

“It will.” Daphne patted her older sister on the cheek. “You’ll see. What with the bridal nerves and all the work to be done, this will be a perfect fit by your wedding day. And if that’s not quite enough . . . ? I’m here to help. We’ll bring back Mother’s game.”

Mother’s game? What the devil was this about?

“I . . .” Clio’s voice broke. “Excuse me, I . . . I need to go upstairs.”

“But you’ve only tried one gown,” Daphne said.

“It’s more than enough for today.” She turned and shuffled down the corridor, heading for the entrance hall.

“You’re not peevish, are you?” Daphne called after her. “I meant to help, you know.” She looked to Rafe, then shrugged and smiled. “She’ll thank me later. You’ll see. From time to time, we all need a little motivation.”

Motivation.

Rafe was feeling motivated. To do just what, he didn’t know. But he was highly motivated to do . . . something. Anything. His blood thundered through his veins.

And then, all the way from the entrance hall, Clio gave him a purpose.

Thunk.

“Curse this wretched gown.”

Clio had suffered a great many mortifications in the past eight years. Smiling through the weeks following Daphne’s elopement, knowing that everyone was whispering about whether it would ever be Clio’s turn. Then there was the first time she’d seen herself called “Miss Wait-More” in the Prattler. That had been miserable, too—surpassed only by the day she’d seen the list of wagers from the betting book at White’s. Dozens of England’s most influential gentlemen, making her elusive wedding date a matter for their sport.