“And I don’t love Piers,” she continued, feeling a heavy realization fall in place. “But you do.”

His chest rose and fell.

“You love him, don’t you?”

He didn’t say yes. She didn’t expect he would. He had too much of the Granville disposition for that.

Instead, he released a gruff sigh and said, “He’s my only brother.” As if that explained everything.

And it did.

She was a fool not to have seen it earlier. That’s what this week was about. Not Rafe’s career. Not his convenience.

No matter how much had happened, no matter how he tried to disclaim society, the bonds of blood still meant something to him. Judging by his expression, they meant a great deal.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” She gave his chest a playful push. “Men. I have to come into your room, seduce you in your sleep, tackle you to the mattress . . . and only then will you admit to caring for your own brother.”

He relented. “I just can’t take his bride from him. Not after everything else.”

“Everything else?” She moved to the side, releasing his arms. “What else did you take? Even if you’ve made some bad investment or lost a part of the fortune, I doubt that Piers will blame you.”

“If only it were that simple.” He struggled up on his elbows. “I took his father, Clio. I was responsible for the marquess’s death.”

It was clear they needed to talk.

But if Rafe was going to manage this conversation, it needed to happen somewhere less bedlike. And they needed to be wearing more clothes.

By the time he stumbled into the kitchen a quarter hour later, dressed in an open-necked shirt and loose trousers, Clio was waiting for him.

She’d plaited her hair, cinched her dressing gown tight, and laid the counter with candles and a few refreshments. A midnight picnic for two.

Were the circumstances different, it would have been romantic. Tonight, he felt like a condemned man settling down for his last meal.

He surveyed the table. “Cake. And beer.”

“Thanks to you, we’ll be eating cake for a month or more.” She dipped her finger in the icing and tasted it. “This one’s gooseberry. The tartness should complement the anise notes in the porter.”

The anise notes? In the porter?

“Who taught you all this?”

“I learned on my own. When I first started considering the brewery plan, I asked the cook to order in a firkin of every beer, porter, ale, and stout available. My ‘finishing’ included instruction on selecting wines. I took to it. It turns out, beer isn’t that different.” She pulled an inch of reddish brown porter into her glass and held it to her nose. “This one’s nice and malty. A hint of cocoa. Here, try.”

She handed it to Rafe, and he took a sip. It tasted like porter. Excellent porter, but . . . porter. Malty, to be sure. All porter was malty. Whatever hints of cocoa and notes of anise were in it, they eluded his detection.

“I don’t know how you taste those things.”

“I think we’re all attuned to detail somehow, we Whitmore girls. Phoebe’s a marvel with anything mathematic. Daphne could tell you who made a bit of lace, and where and during what season, just by glancing at a three-inch sample.” She shrugged and sipped. “I can taste the lavender border that grew next to the hops.”

“Daphne and Phoebe don’t hide their talents, though.”

She filled the rest of the glass. “I’m already the dumpling of the family, and I’m the one with a knack for tasting? You can imagine the teasing I’d suffer. From my brother-in-law alone.” She slid him his beer. “But we’re not here to talk about me.”

No, they weren’t. Rafe drew up a stool. “It’s a long story.”

“It’s a large cake.” She pushed a fork in his direction. “And before we begin, I should like one thing noted. I knew you had Secret Pain.”

His chest lifted with a humorless chuckle. “After tonight, it won’t be so secret anymore.”

“Well. At least that’s something I can claim. None of your other women ever came this far.”

She had no idea. No other woman had even come close.

She poked at the cake with her fork, teasing berries out of the filling and popping one into her mouth. As she swallowed, her eyes closed involuntarily.

When she opened them, she caught him staring at her.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?” she asked, her mouth still partly full.

“Cake sounds.”

“Sorry.” She swallowed. “I didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed. I always noticed. I’m a bastard that way.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that.” She set down her fork and stacked her arms on the table. “No, I mean this, Rafe. You throw that word about so casually, and I’ve been wrong not to object before now. I think a great deal of you, and . . . And it hurts to hear you disparaged that way, by anyone.”

Sweet girl.

“It fits, though. I always felt fatherless. From boyhood, I was always the odd one out. Piers was cast from my father’s mold, and I . . . I just wasn’t. I was a miserable student. I didn’t excel at their gentlemanly pursuits. I didn’t have the right upper-crust friends. I was big and rough, not handsome and refined.” He took a draught of his porter. “Piers could sneeze, and the old man would beam with pride. I was always the mistake. Sometimes I wondered if I was even his natural son.”