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earned.”
    The titles he’d earned ?
    Right now, in Clio’s estimation, he was earning the title Lord Pain-upon-Arse. Goodness, the man was exhausting.
    “I suppose you mean the title of champion,” she said, feeling peevish as she resettled a pillow in its row. “But that’s Jack Dubose’s title now. Isn’t it?”
    He turned to face her, and for the first time since he’d entered the castle, there were no restless motions. His gaze ceased wandering and focused, dark and intent, on her.
    She squared her shoulders, refusing to look cowed.
    Meanwhile, the back of her neck prickled like mad. And her heart skipped around her chest.
    He spoke three simple, solemn words. “Not for long.”
    The room vibrated with an unbearable tension.
    Desperate to resolve it somehow, Clio tucked the last pillow back in its place. “There.”
    He looked at the pillow. Then at her. “You are so perfect for my brother.”
    The words did something strange to her.
    Perfect, he said .
    Perfect for Piers .
    Rafe could have no idea how that statement affected her. All those years of language tutors and etiquette lessons and . . . and worse. Much worse. Her mother’s efforts to mold her to the role of Lady Granville had made Clio sick, quite literally.
    But she’d endured it all without complaint, desperate to be deemed satisfactory, let alone perfect. When she had been seventeen—or nineteen, or even twenty-three—Clio would have given anything to hear those words.
    And now, when she’d made up her mind to stop chasing perfection . . . Here came Rafe and all his trunks full of dangerous, arrogant nerve.
    You are so perfect for my brother.
    Witty responses eluded her. All she could say was, “Don’t.”
    “Rafe.” A breathless Montague burst into the room, carrying something in his hands. He didn’t seem to notice Clio where she stood at the head of the bed. “Rafe, these rooms are unbelievable. You have to see this chamber pot. I’ve eaten from plates that weren’t this clean.”
    “Montague . . .”
    “I’m in earnest. I’d lick this.” He turned the glazed pot over in his hands. “Dare me to?”
    “No.”
    “Because I’ll do it.”
    “ Don’t. ”
    Rafe and Clio spoke the word in unison. A mutual, primal cry of desperation.
    Montague froze—tongue out, eyebrows up—finally taking note of Clio’s presence. He spoke without retracting his tongue. “Ah. Mih Wih-muh.”
    “Mr. Montague.”
    Montague thrust the chamber pot behind his back. “I was . . . just remarking to Lord Rafe on the exceptional thoroughness of your housekeeping.”
    “Quite.”
    Clio didn’t know what was going on with this Montague character, but she sensed that it gave her an edge with Rafe. And she needed any advantage she could get.
    “I’ll leave you both to settle in,” she said, plumping the final pillow. “Dinner is at seven.”
    Dinner was . . . long.
    The first course started well, Rafe thought.
    Which was to say, both he and Bruiser managed to use the proper spoon for the soup and didn’t overturn any tureens.
    Then came that awkward moment when Rafe looked up from his empty bowl to realize everyone else at the table was only on the second or third spoonful.
    Clio looked at him, amused. “Did you enjoy the soup?”
    He peered at the empty bowl. “Pea soup, was it?”
    “Jerusalem artichoke. With rosemary croutons, lemon oil, and a dollop of fresh cream.”
    “Right. That’s what I meant.”
    Rafe cracked his knuckles under the table. He’d always hated these formal dinners, from the time he was old enough to be allowed at the dining table. Food was fuel to him, not a reason for hours of ceremony. One would think a rack of lamb had graduated Cambridge or made naval lieutenant, for all the pomp it received.
    “How many courses are you serving?” he asked, when the servants removed the soup and brought out platters of fish.
    “It’s just a simple family dinner.” She lifted her wineglass. “Only