Seven Wicked Nights (21 page)

“No, I much prefer to watch Lord Everett play cricket,” said Miss Lacy with a dreamy look on her face.

“They can’t have all disappeared into thin air!” burst out Bridget. “We just have to keep looking—” She froze, looking at her brother in alarm.

Wessex, though, merely grinned. “I can hardly turn traitor on my fellow man, can I?”

“And will you tell Mama?” asked Alexandra cautiously.

“We aren’t doing anything wrong!” cried Bridget again. “We’re just … just—” She glanced at her companions. “—just trying to be good hostesses. What if the gentlemen have disappeared because they’re bored to death of Kingstag and need reviving from their stupors?”

The duke glanced at Cleo, mirth glinting in his gaze. “No one accused you of doing wrong. But I doubt you’ll need to revive anyone from a stupor—not until the ball, that is.”

A chorus of protests went up. “No! The ball is the only worthy event!” “Who could fall into a stupor at a ball?” “The gentlemen wouldn’t dare try to miss the ball, would they, Wessex? Mama would be furious!”

The duke held up his hands. “I’m sure they’ll all be at the ball. Just as I’m sure you ought not to wander too far away. If Mama misses you, nothing I say will save you. It would be a terrible shame to miss the ball as punishment….”

He let his suggestion trail off as the girls stared at him in shocked horror. Without a word they turned toward the house, although as she passed Cleo, Bridget did whisper once more, “You really ought to see the grotto!”

Cleo laughed and waved farewell. For a moment she and the duke stood and watched them go, some with steps dragging and some putting their heads together to whisper.

“So that’s why the men have congregated in the stables,” she remarked. “Not merely the lure of a top-notch phaeton.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know anything about that.”

Cleo laughed again.

“Although—” Wessex glanced at his sisters’ retreating figures. “—one does sympathize.”

“Frightened by a group of girls?” she asked mischievously.

A faint smile crossed his face. “When Bridget is one of their number? Yes.”

On impulse, she added, “Where is the grotto?”

The duke looked at her, his eyebrows slightly raised. For a moment everything seemed to fade away but the two of them. Cleo felt again the mixture of attraction and alarm that had tugged at her in the parlor the other day. She wet her lips. “That’s twice now that Lady Bridget has mentioned it. I’ve never seen a grotto. Is it very dark and mysterious?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Yes.”

Oh no. No, no, no. She held out her hand and forced a shaky smile to her lips. “Excellent! Perhaps I shall visit it some other day, after I’ve written my letters.”

He hesitated, then handed her the writing case. The weight of it seemed to help hold her feet to the ground; she was a lowly merchant, not someone a duke would find fascinating. She would take her bills and inventory reports, and he would go back to his castle. “You might find a quiet spot by the lake. There are blankets in the boathouse.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He looked as though he might say something else, but after a moment he merely bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Barrows.” He turned and walked back the way they had come, without looking back.

Cleo knew, because she watched him until he disappeared from sight.

Chapter Seven

G
ARETH JOINED
B
LAIR
on the way to the bowling green a couple of days later. He hadn’t planned to go when his mother told him she had planned a day of bowls, but by now he conceded that he was unable to concentrate as usual.
Besides, it is the proper thing for a host to join his guests
, he told himself as he caught sight of the green, some distance from the house. The ladies reposed under the awnings, enjoying refreshments. A pair of young boys were on the green, arguing over something with fingers pointed and an occasional stamp of a foot. But otherwise there was something decidedly off about the scene.

“Where are the gentlemen?” he asked.

“In the stables.”

“All of them?” exclaimed Gareth.

Blair grinned. “Willoughby’s refuge has proven enormously popular.”

“That damned phaeton.” Gareth shook his head. He knew several men had joined Jack in the stables, but they had still come to his mother’s planned entertainments—until now.

“It really is the finest thing on four wheels I’ve ever seen,” agreed Blair warmly. “And as fast as the wind, he assured us all.”

He glanced sideways at his cousin. “So you’re a member of his band of refugees?”

“I was merely investigating where all the port seemed to have disappeared to,” replied Blair with a perfectly straight face.

“He took the best spirits, didn’t he?” That explained things a bit more.

Blair just grinned again.

Gareth shook his head. “God help the woman Jack marries. She had better be made of stern stuff.”

His cousin coughed. “We cannot all be as fortunate as you, Wessex, to marry a lady as agreeable as Miss Grey.”

Gareth had nothing to say to that. Helen Grey
was
agreeable—perfectly, completely, alarmingly agreeable. Whatever he said to her, she agreed with. Whatever he suggested, she did. He was developing the oddest feeling that she was afraid of him. Even Withers opposed him from time to time, and Withers was his employee. He reminded himself to pay attention to her today—and then felt guilty that he was in any danger of overlooking her.

Perhaps if he had no interest in any of the women, he wouldn’t feel that way. Unfortunately, Cleo Barrows had come to the wedding, and he was not only uninterested in his actual bride, he was fascinated by her sister. It was wrong. It was almost immoral. He wanted it to stop and yet felt helpless to do so when his eyes seemed to follow her of their own volition and his ears seemed more attuned to the sound of her voice than to any other’s.

They reached the largest of the awnings, set on a gentle rise overlooking the bowling green. His mother came to meet them. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Isn’t it my duty as a host?” Gareth kissed her cheek even as he covertly scanned the tent. He saw Cleo Barrows first, sending his heart leaping. She was speaking to another lady … whom he recognized a moment later as his betrothed bride. Not a promising beginning.

“I merely remembered that you told me you would be busy until the ball,” his mother murmured, linking her arm through his. “I’m very pleased to see you were drawn out earlier.” They strolled among the guests, pausing now and then to speak to someone. If Jack had assembled a gentlemen’s retreat in the stables, it seemed his mother had created one under the awnings for the ladies. Round tables held pitchers of lemonade, plates of cakes and biscuits, and pots of tea, constantly refreshed by servants. The seating included small settees and benches, although Sophronia was sitting in a large upholstered chair, like a monarch on a throne, slicing a cheese with her sharp little knife.

“Finally come to see the girl, Wessex?” The old lady fixed her gleaming gaze upon him. “You’ve hardly spoken to your bride.”

“Sophronia,” said the duchess. “Really!”

“I came to see you,” Gareth said before his mother could go on. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, which she presented with the regal detachment of a queen. “How are you, old dear?”

“Bored,” Sophronia replied. “Everyone here is too polite. There’s no trouble. No scandal.”

“Do we really want that?” he asked mildly. It only encouraged Sophronia when people gasped and swooned at her outbursts.

“It’s dull,” announced the old lady, pointing her dirk at him. “What good is a house party if everyone’s going to behave? I got my hopes raised when you invited that scamp, Jack Willoughby, but he’s barely shown his face around here! And even worse, he’s been a horrible distraction to Henrietta, and I have to let some parlor maid help me. I’m astonished to see her here today.” She glanced over at Henrietta, who was holding a plate of cakes and listening with obviously strained patience to a very earnest-looking young woman. “She still hasn’t brought my cake, though. I wager she’d bring it quickly enough if Willoughby wandered in.”

“I will speak to Henrietta,” began the duchess quickly, but Sophronia waved her off.

“Oh, let her have some fun. I’m sure they’re up to something scandalous. I’d pay a shilling to watch them torment each other, but they keep disappearing and Henrietta refuses to tell me what they get up to, the vexing creature,” she finished sourly, as if Jack and Henrietta had purposely schemed to deprive her of entertainment. “If she’s going to desert me, she might as well tell me how naughty he can be.”

“I’m not certain I can help,” Gareth said. He doubted Jack would be flushed out of the stables by anything less than a duel.

“I daresay you can’t,” she grumbled. “Too upstanding by half. And your bride—Miss Grey! I never met such a polite, proper girl in my life. At least the party includes a few interesting people. Have you met Angela?”

Gareth glanced at his mother, who looked nonplussed. “I don’t recall anyone by that name,” she murmured.

“Oh! I invited her. The daughter of a very distant relation—not your side of the family, Alice. Very intriguing girl. She must have slipped off somewhere, but you’ll meet her eventually.” There was a hint of relish in the old lady’s voice that made Gareth wonder what trouble this distant relation Angela might unleash.

“But Sophronia,” said the duchess delicately. “The house is very full. I’m afraid we haven’t any rooms to spare. If you had informed me earlier you wished to invite someone—”

“Don’t worry about that,” interrupted Sophronia. “Angela is staying with me. I need someone to talk to, now that Henrietta’s set her cap for Willoughby.” She scowled. “And if he doesn’t recognize her for the prize she is, I shall take my dirk to him. He won’t make a fool of my companion, no matter how charming his smile!” She stabbed her knife into the cheese for emphasis.

Gareth bit his cheek to keep from roaring with laughter at the image of Sophronia pursuing Jack with her dagger drawn. It was almost as entertaining as the thought of Jack falling for Henrietta, who was everything Jack was not: organized, responsible, and punctual.

He excused himself and made his way toward Helen, determinedly keeping his gaze fixed on her. She looked far livelier today, laughing and talking with obvious pleasure. She was truly lovely; her eyes glowed and there was a very handsome blush on her cheeks. She fluttered her hands about, as though portraying birds, and Gareth made the mistake of letting his eyes follow one graceful hand as she fluttered it over to rest on her sister’s arm. Her sister, sitting very close to James Blair on the bench.

He almost missed his footing at the expression on Cleo Barrows’s face. Her face was scrunched up with laughter—she had even wrinkled her nose—as she shook her head at whatever her sister said. Her curls bounced and threatened to topple down her back; one had already come loose and brushed the nape of her neck. Her sister was beautiful, but Cleo … she was captivating.

He had the growing feeling that he was doomed. The harder he tried to find a reason why she was undesirable in any way, the less success he had. He wanted to wind that loose curl around his fingers. He wanted to press his lips to the back of her neck, and the base of her throat. He wanted to talk to her, to have those sparkling brown eyes fixed on him, to see that impish grin directed his way. Instead he watched Blair receive all that and more when she turned to his cousin, put her hand on his arm, and leaned close to whisper something that made Blair throw back his head and shout with laughter.

“I’m delighted to see Miss Grey looking well again,” said his mother. “I do believe Mrs. Barrows could make anyone smile, though.”

He watched the way she tipped her head to one side, and for a single heartbeat their gazes met. “Indeed.”

“James seems quite taken with her,” she went on. “I understand she’s a widow with a pretty income. He could certainly do worse, if he’s thinking of marrying.”

This time there was no mistaking the feeling oozing through his veins. It was jealousy, raw and bitter. It was utterly irrational and yet undeniable. He forced it down. “I suppose,” he replied, in what he hoped was an offhand voice. “Has he said anything to you about her?”

“Of course not. Do you think I should encourage him?”

He gritted his teeth. “I think he’s a grown man capable of deciding such a thing himself.” Without waiting for her reply, he went down to join the boys still arguing over bowls. The only other male about seemed to be Blair, and Gareth found he had no patience to watch his cousin flirt with Cleo.

And he didn’t swerve from his course when he saw the lady in question stroll down to the green ahead of him.