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 four.”
Bloody hell. He’d rather fight forty rounds.
He could feel himself growing restless, and that never boded well.
Somehow he made it through the fish course, and then it was on to the joints and meats. At least the carving gave him something to do.
“So Mr. Montague.” Lady Cambourne eyed Bruiser keenly over a carved leg of lamb. “I assume you’re a barrister?”
“A barrister? God, no.” Bruiser forced down a swallow of wine. “Er . . . What would make you think that?”
“Well, the ‘esquire,’ naturally. It must be for something. So if you’re not a barrister . . . Either your grandfather was a peer, or your father was knighted. Which is it?”
“I . . . ahem . . .” He hooked one finger under his cravat and tugged at it, throwing Rafe a help-me-out-mate glance.
In return, Rafe gave him a you’re-on-your-own-jackass smile.
“Oh, don’t tell us.” Daphne sawed away at her beef. “We’ll guess. I suppose there are other ways of meriting the honor. There’s proving oneself of special service to the Crown. But aren’t you a bit young for that, Montague?”
He lifted that damned quizzing glass to his eye and peered at her. “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Ah.” Her lips curled with satisfaction. “So I see.”
“I thought you would.”
For the love of God. Rafe couldn’t believe that thing was actually working. Had Daphne Whitmore always been this dim? He couldn’t recall. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been little more than a girl.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Montague’s origins aren’t important. My brother dispatched him to Twill Castle for a reason. To assist with the preparations for the wedding.”
“The wedding.” Daphne looked sharply from Bruiser to Rafe. “You’re here to plan the wedding? My sister and Lord Granville’s wedding?”
“The very one,” Bruiser said. “Lord Granville wishes for everything to be readied in advance of his return. So he can marry Miss Whitmore without delay.”
“But he’s due to return within a few weeks,” Daphne replied. “That’s not enough time to plan a wedding. Not a wedding fit for a marquess, at any rate. You’ll need invitations, flowers, décor, the wedding breakfast. A gown.”
“I think you’re right,” Clio said. “It can’t be done. Better to wait until Piers—”
Daphne held up a fork, gesturing for silence. “Improbable. But not impossible. You’ll need a great deal of help with the planning. It’s a good thing Teddy and I are staying on here at the castle. We should be glad to offer our assistance.”
“That’s kind of you,” Clio said. “But unnecessary.”
Damn right it was unnecessary, Rafe thought.
Clio didn’t need her sister’s help pulling together events on short notice. Clio had planned the old marquess’s funeral earlier that year, when he was injured and in no condition to help. Now she was managing this castle all on her own.
Hell, there were sixteen pillows on his bed, arranged like a Druid monument to her powers of organization.
Besides, these wedding plans were supposed to make her enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying Piers and becoming the Marchioness of Granville. That would be a great deal less likely with Sir Coxcomb and Lady Featherbrain meddling in everything.
“Miss Whitmore may have anything she wishes,” he said. “Anything at all. No expense will be spared.”
“Of course,” Daphne said. “Fortunately, I keep abreast of all the latest fashions, both in London and on the Continent. This wedding will be the finest England has seen in a decade. After dinner, we’ll start on a list of tasks.”
“I can start the list now.” Phoebe pushed aside the berries and custard a servant had just placed before her, withdrawing a pencil and small notebook from her pocket.
“We’ll need a location,” Daphne said. “Does the castle have a chapel?”
“Yes,” Clio said. “A lovely one. I’d been hoping to give you all a proper tour after dinner. The architecture of the place is—”
Daphne waved her off. “More boring stones and cobwebs. If they’ve been here for four hundred years, they can wait. The wedding plans cannot. I suppose there’s a curate or vicar in the neighborhood. Then there’s only the matter of a license . . . Someone will need to procure a special license from Canterbury.”