“It’s not that I begrudge his sense of duty,” she said. “Nor how essential he’s made himself to the Crown. But it’s become abundantly clear that I’m not essential to him.”

Rafe rubbed his face with both hands and growled into them.

“My solicitors told me I’d have a case for a breach of promise suit. But I didn’t want to embarrass him. Now that I have Twill Castle, I don’t require the security of marriage. A quiet dissolution is best for all concerned.”

“No. It’s not best. Not at all.”

Not best for Piers, not best for Clio.

And definitely not best for Rafe.

He’d put his prizefighting career on hold after his father’s death. He didn’t have a choice. With Piers out of the country, Rafe found himself, however unwillingly, at the helm of the Granville fortune.

He belonged in a boxing ring, not an office. He knew it, and so did the solicitors and stewards, who barely managed to veil their disdain. They came armed with folios and ledgers and a dozen matters for his attention, and before Rafe sorted his way through one issue, they were on to the next. Each meeting left him restless and simmering with resentment—as though he’d been sent down from Eton all over again.

Rafe could all but hear his father twisting in his grave, spitting worms and grinding out those same, familiar words.

No son of mine will remain an uneducated brute. No son of mine will disgrace this family’s legacy.

Rafe had always been a disappointment. He’d never been the son his father wanted. But he’d made his own life, earned his own title—not “lord,” but “champion.” As soon as Piers returned to England and married, he would be free to fight again and get that title back.

If Clio called off the wedding, however . . . ?

His globe-wandering brother might turn around and disappear for another eight years.

“Piers has likely been hoping for this outcome all along,” Clio said. “He wanted out of the engagement, but his honor wouldn’t permit him to ask. When he learns the dissolution is already done, I expect he’ll be relieved.”

“Piers will not be relieved. And I’m not going to let you do this.”

“I don’t wish to quarrel.” She rolled the papers and tapped the cylinder on its edge. “You have my apologies for the intrusion. I’ll take my leave now. And I’ll bring these papers with me to Kent. If you change your mind about signing them, I’ll be at Twill Castle. It’s near the village of Charingwood.”

“I won’t sign. And mark my words, you won’t ask him to sign it, either. When he comes back, you’ll know at once that the gossip was baseless. You’ll be reminded of the reasons why you consented to be his bride in the first place. And you will marry him.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Think of it. You’ll be a marchioness.”

“No,” she said. “I truly won’t.”

Her quiet, solemn tone unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Hell, his palms were even growing damp. It was as though he could feel his career—everything he’d worked for, and the only thing that made his life worth a damn—slipping from his grasp.

She moved to leave, and he lunged to catch her by the arm. “Clio, wait.”

“He doesn’t want me.” Her voice broke. “Can’t you understand that? Everyone knows. It took me too many years to see the truth. But I’m done waiting. He doesn’t want me, and I no longer want him. I have to protect my heart.”

Damn it all. So that’s what this was. He should have guessed. The reason for her sudden reluctance was as plain as the lion on the Granville crest.

Rafe was the rebel of the family, but Piers had been chipped straight from their father’s stone. Upright, proud, unyielding. And most of all, unwilling to show emotion.

Rafe didn’t have a damned thing in common with a society debutante, but he knew that it hurt to feel unwanted by the Marquess of Granville. He’d spent his own youth starved for the slightest sign of his father’s affection or approval—and he’d loathed himself when those signs never came.

“Piers wants you.” He silenced her objection, rubbing his thumb up and down her arm. God, she was soft there. “He will. Make those wedding plans, Clio. Because when he sees you again for the first time, it’s going to come as a blow to the ribs, that wanting. He’s going to want to see you in that grand, lacy gown, with little blossoms strewn in your hair. He’s going to want to watch you walk down that aisle, feeling his chest swell closer to bursting from pride with every step you take. And most of all, he’ll want to stand before God, your friends and family, and all of London society—just to tell them you’re his. His, and no one else’s.”

She didn’t respond.

“You’re going to want that, too.” He released her arm with a squeeze, then chucked her under the chin. “Mark my words. I’ll see you married to my brother within the month—even if I have to plan the damn wedding myself.”

“What?” She shook herself. “You, plan the wedding?”

A little smile played about her lips as she looked to the exposed ceiling rafters, the barren brick walls, the rough-hewn furniture . . . then back to him. The most crude, inelegant thing in the room.

“Now I’m almost sorry it’s not going to happen,” she said, pulling away. “Because that would be amusing.”