The coach lurched to a sudden halt.

“Why are we stopping? Is there a turnpike?”

“The road is clogged with carriages, all the way to the bend,” Piers said, craning his neck. “We must be close.”

Clio checked her timepiece. Almost noon.

There wasn’t any time to waste.

She reached for the door latch. “Then I’ll cover the rest of the distance on foot.”

“Clio, wait.”

She laughed as she pushed the door open and escaped the confines of the carriage. Of all the futile words to call after her.

Clio, wait.

She wasn’t waiting one second longer.

Piers followed her as she raced along the side of the road, clambering over a stile to cut across a field. High, impertinent grasses tangled about her boots and grasped at the hem of her skirt.

When she reached the tavern, she could see the fight had drawn onlookers by the score. Perhaps by the hundreds. They were flocking like linnets toward the grassy meadow behind the inn.

She picked up her skirts and dashed the remaining distance, attempting to pick and weave her way through the crowd. “Excuse me, please. I beg your pardon. Please let me pass.”

A man trod on her boot.

She made a fist and cocked it. “Move.”

The last, inner ring of spectators gave way, and Clio emerged into the center clearing.

There he was.

Rafe.

Standing not thirty feet away. His back was to her, but she’d know those shoulders anywhere.

“Rafe!” She hastened across the meadow. “Rafe, wait!”

He turned, pausing in the act of fixing his cuff. He frowned at her. “Clio. You’re early.”

Early?

Perhaps she ought to have wondered why he seemed to be expecting her, but she was too busy feeling relieved that she wasn’t too late. Evidently the fight wasn’t due to start quite yet. He was dressed much too fine for boxing—wearing a blue tailcoat, freshly starched cravat, and a striped silk waistcoat.

And those tall, gleaming boots.

Dear heaven, he looked magnificent.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking past her toward the road. “Where’s my br—”

“I’m not . . .” She pressed a hand to her belly, breathless. “I’m not here to stop you.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “I won’t even watch if you don’t want me to.”

“You . . . won’t.”

She shook her head. “But I wanted you to know I’m here. Cheering for you. Believing in you. Most of all, I needed to show you this.” She pulled a paper from her pocket and unfolded it, handing it to him. “Go on, have a look.”

He peered at it.

“It’s for the brewery,” she explained. “I’ve just ordered seven hundred casks with that design. So you’d better win. I should hate to have to change them all now.”

He read the inscription aloud. “Champion Pale Ale.”

“You’re going to beat him, Rafe. I know you will. You’re the strongest and bravest man I know, and you have the most heart. You supported my dreams. I believe in yours. Go get your title back.”

He was quiet as he stared at the paper.

For interminable moments.

“Could you . . .” She swallowed nervously. “Could you say something? Or do something? Anything, really. I feel quite alone right now.”

He brushed aside a stray lock of her hair, and the sensation made her breathless all over again. She’d gone so long without his touch.

“You’re not alone. You never will be.” Folding the paper, he added, “I think Champion Pale Ale is a fine name indeed. It’s only . . . we’ll have to ask Jack Dubose to endorse it.”

“No, no. You’ll endorse it. You’re going to beat Dubose today.”

“That would be difficult, seeing as he’s not here.”

She didn’t understand. “But I saw the broadsheet. It said, ‘Witness Rafe Brandon meeting his most formidable opponent yet. The match of his life.’ Who else could that be, but Dubose?”

That boyish grin tugged at his lips. “Who indeed?”

Clio was so confused. She stepped back and turned in a circle, for the first time taking a proper survey of the area. The space was wide and open, and she couldn’t see Rafe’s opponent anywhere. The onlookers appeared to be remarkably well-groomed for a prizefight, and . . .

Goodness. How odd. Was that her cousin Elinor? What on earth could she be doing at a prizefight?

“Where’s the ring?” she asked, turning back to him. “There’s no ring.”

“Oh, there’s a ring. I have it right here.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a band of shining gold, balanced between his enormous thumb and forefinger.

A lump formed in Clio’s throat as she stared at it. Three lovely, soft green emeralds surrounded by smaller diamonds.

“You said your favorite color is green. I hope that was one of the truths.”

“This is for me?”

“It’s all for you. The ring. The guests. The broadsheet. Sorry, but I thought you’d suffered through enough of these preparations already. And I didn’t have the patience for proper invitations.”

Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to understand him. “This isn’t a prizefight at all. It’s a wedding.”

He nodded. “Ours, I hope.”