Good God. Not this “best man” nonsense again. If there’d been any doubt about Rafe’s unsuitability for that post, his behavior in the tower yesterday should have erased it.

Nonetheless, Rafe did as he was asked, moving to stand just to the side of the altar. For once, Clio seemed to be enjoying the wedding idea. He wasn’t going to ruin that.

“A vicar,” Bruiser muttered to himself. “We need a vicar. Someone solemn, dignified, wearing a collar . . . Aha.”

He plucked Ellingworth from the carpet and lugged him up to the altar, depositing the old, wrinkled bulldog in the place where a vicar would stand. With a wheeze, the dog sank to rest on his belly, head between his two front paws. His wrinkled jowls pooled around his black nose.

Daphne said, “Now all we’re missing is a groom.”

“A sadly familiar sensation,” Clio replied.

“Not to worry. We can remedy that, Miss Whitmore.” Bruiser dashed behind Rafe and prodded him forward, toward the center. “Rafe will stand in for Lord Granville. I’ll be best man.”

“What?” Rafe muttered under his breath. “No. I’m not playing the groom.”

“You’re his brother,” Bruiser whispered back. “You’re the logical choice. I can’t very well send her down the aisle to kiss Ellingworth, can I?”

Rafe cast a glance around the chapel. What the devil had happened to Sir Teddy Cambourne? The man was always where he wasn’t wanted and never around when he might be useful.

“Next,” Bruiser said, “the orchestra will strike up the processional.”

“I don’t know where you mean to fit an orchestra in this chapel,” Clio said from somewhere beneath her tablecloth.

“They’ll squeeze in somewhere.”

“Really, the organ would be good enough.”

“No,” Rafe interjected. “Nothing ‘good enough’ is good enough. Not for this wedding. An orchestra it is.”

“Ready, then? Bridesmaids first.” Bruiser began humming a processional.

Daphne joined in the humming, leading Phoebe down the aisle.

“Now the bride.” When Clio hesitated, Bruiser nudged Rafe. “Hum along, will you?”

“I’m not humming. I don’t hum.”

His trainer jabbed him in the kidney. “Do you want to sell her on this wedding or not?”

Damnation.

Rafe started to hum, too.

Clio gave in, walking down the aisle of the chapel—toward a bulldog, in time with the strains of tuneless humming, draped in a tablecloth and clutching a handful of wilting, dripping flowers. Halfway down, she started to giggle. By the time she reached Rafe at the altar, she was laughing aloud.

“I’m telling you, Miss Whitmore,” Bruiser said. “The guests will rise to their feet in awe.”

“Oh, yes.” She was still laughing as she lifted the tablecloth from her face. “I’m sure they will. With a bride like this before them, how could they not?”

Curse it, Rafe should have known this wouldn’t work. She wasn’t dazzled. She was only amused. It had gone all wrong.

Except, in a strange way, it felt rather right. If he were ever to be married, this was just how he’d want his bride to look as she walked down the aisle to meet him.

Happy. Joyful. Even laughing. Having the time of her life.

But Rafe wasn’t getting married.

And Clio was not going to be his bride.

“What time is it?” Phoebe asked. “Mr. Montague, will you check your pocket watch?”

“I . . . er . . .”

Bruiser looked down at the flashy watch fob where it disappeared into his pocket. Rafe would wager it wasn’t attached to a timepiece of any sort.

Rafe pulled out his own watch and opened it. “It’s seventeen minutes past two.”

Phoebe nodded. “You should have the wedding at eighteen minutes past two.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, kitten.” Daphne gave her younger sister a pinch. “No one has a wedding at two o’clock, much less eighteen minutes past. Whyever would they do that?”

“Wait a minute,” Phoebe replied. “You’ll see.”

No sooner had she said this than a shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the altar. A column of luminous, breathtaking gold enveloped Clio in its warmth. Her fair hair gleamed. Her skin glowed. Her blue eyes had the depth and richness of lapis. Even the stupid lace tablecloth was transformed into a thing of delicate beauty.

“Cor,” Bruiser said, forgetting his Montague role completely. “I did promise dazzle, didn’t I?”

Rafe didn’t know about Clio, but he was dazzled.

He was dazzled to his bones.

“What is it?” Clio looked around at them. “You’re all staring. Have I grown a second head?”

“No,” Daphne said, sounding uncharacteristically genuine and kind. “Not at all. Oh, Clio, you’re lovely.”

“Lovelier,” Bruiser corrected.

“Loveliest.” The word was out before Rafe had time to consider it.

He wouldn’t take it back if he could. She was, quite simply, the loveliest thing he’d seen in years. Perhaps in all his life.

“Me?” She laughed and touched her tablecloth veil. “In this?”

Everyone hastened to assure her it was the truth.

“You should see yourself,” Rafe said. “You’re . . .”