“Now,” Daphne said, “unless you mean to make me the worst sort of liar, the wedding had better be spectacular. And soon.”

Clio led her sister to the sitting room. “Perhaps it will be. Come with me.”

No fewer than six dressmakers and assistants stood waiting to assist her. The room was so spattered in frothy white, it looked like a volcano had erupted. A volcano of meringue.

Clio turned to Daphne and said the words she knew her sister had been longing to hear for years.

“Make me beautiful.”

“This is madness.”

Rafe had spent enough time in drawing rooms this week to last him a lifetime. And he certainly had no wish to see Clio fitted in a gown for a wedding that wasn’t meant to be theirs.

“Maybe we ought to leave,” he said.

He didn’t know what the devil was wrong with him, but if he had any decency, he would cease inflicting it on Clio.

“Are you syphilitic?” Bruiser had his ear pressed to the connecting door. “We are not going to leave. Rafe, you don’t know what I’ve been through in the past few days. Just getting the dressmakers here from London was difficult enough. But that ring? Oh, you owe me for that ring.”

Rafe didn’t know how to argue with that. In truth, he owed Bruiser all manner of debts. It occurred to him that his trainer just might be the one person in his life he’d managed to not drive away.

“How long have we been working together?” Rafe asked. “Five years?”

“Six, by my counting.”

“And I’m going to assume that you dream about leaving my employ just as often as I contemplate setting you loose.”

“Daily, you mean? Oh, certainly.”

“So how is it that we’ve kept this partnership together?”

Bruiser gave him an annoyed look. “By not overthinking it.”

Right.

Perhaps there was a seed of truth in his trainer’s impatient answer. Rafe should stop overthinking things. He loved Clio. He’d do anything to keep her. Anything. That was God’s truth as it lived in his heart, and what he meant to tell her the instant she came through the door.

“She’s coming. Stand up.”

He knew he was in trouble before she even entered the room. He could hear it in the rhythm of her footsteps. Brisk. Confident. Fierce.

No thunks.

Or clunks.

She felt powerful. Which meant she would be beautiful.

He rose to his feet, found his center of balance, kept his joints loose, and got ready to roll with the punch.

The doors opened.

Holy God. He didn’t stand a chance.

She was a knockout.

Bruiser pumped his fist. “Now that’s more like it.”

Rafe didn’t even see the gown. It was white, he assumed. Or eggshell, or ivory. There was probably silk and lace involved. Perhaps a few brilliants or pearls. Really, he couldn’t have described the cut or style or fabric to save his neck.

He only saw her.

The gown was like a master-crafted gold setting, and Clio was the jewel allowed to shine.

“Well?” Daphne prompted. “What do you think?”

An excellent question. What did he think? His brain had ceased responding.

Words. He should say some words, but he had no words. He was finding it difficult to locate air. All that came out was, “You . . . It’s . . . Buh.”

“Exquisite.”

The suavely articulated pronouncement came from somewhere behind him, but Rafe recognized the voice at once. He didn’t even need to turn. Now that the old marquess was dead, that voice could only belong to one man.

“Piers,” Clio breathed.

It was Piers. In the flesh.

Every time Rafe saw him, Piers looked more and more like their father. Tall. Strong, but lean. His dark hair had picked up a few new threads of silver. Squared shoulders like a shelf, with that refined, aristocratic face—unbroken nose and all—as its only ornament.

Ice blue eyes that saw everything and found it all wanting.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Clio said.

“It’s me. I’m back in England for good this time. And this is the best possible welcome home.” His gaze alternated between Clio and Rafe. “Seeing you both. The two people I care for most in the world.”

Piers crossed the carpet in decisive, very Granville strides, coming face-to-face with Rafe. “About Father.”

All the apologies and explanations Rafe had mulled over during the past few months . . . They all fled his brain.

And then his brother pulled him into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in Rafe’s ear. “I’m sorry you had to bury him alone. Damn it. I should have been there, too.”

Oh, Jesus.

“This is magical.” Bruiser dabbed a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t have planned it any better.”

Rafe didn’t want to hear about Bruiser and his magic. His emotions were in such turmoil, he thought he might be sick.

It only got worse.

Next, Piers walked the distance to Clio, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Just look at you. Exquisite. Perfect.”

And then . . . oh God . . . he kissed her.

Piers kissed “his” bride, right in front of everyone, and there wasn’t a damned thing Rafe could do about it. Except inwardly howl and bleed.

“I should have done that years ago,” Piers said upon lifting his head. “I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?” she asked.