The footman had not returned to his post, and the door stood partly open, presumably left that way by the last to leave. Voices from within told that the room was not empty, however. Hidden by the stout oak panel, but with a clear view into the room, he paused. The card players had reconfigured themselves. Whitby now partnered Miss Pilkington, who looked more animated than she had at any previous time that day. Beresford and Lady Lydgate were teamed against them, seated on opposite sides of the table; he refused to speculate on what might be going on between them beneath its cover. Sir Thomas faced Lord Easton over the chessboard, the former studying his next move while his opponent snored. Virtually the same dull scene he had left. Only the Newsomes had gone. Guin now sat by the fire in place of the vicar’s wife, a book open on her lap.
His mind returned to what had just transpired in the kitchen. How close he had come to offering Erica…what, exactly? Even now, he was not sure. But he’d been momentarily possessed by the certainty that life at Hawesdale, if it must be borne, would be a sight more interesting with her in residence.
Not just interesting. Bearable. She was fresh air and wild energy and…quite possibly a spy.
She was hiding something, certainly. Some part of herself, though he suspected she had come closer than ever to revealing it to him tonight. How desperately he wanted to know more. But the curiosity he felt now was not familiar to him, neither the idle sort that had led him into misery in his childhood, nor the skilled sort that made him an asset to king and country. A curiosity not of mind, nor even—entirely—of body, but of…spirit? Kindred spirits? He laughed to himself. How could that be when they had nothing in common at all?
Though he had not made a sound, his stepmother looked up and caught his eye. When she lifted one hand to wave him in, he held a finger to his lips and shook his head. She and Viv might be the only ones in the house who wanted his company. Even the servants regretted his return, his assumption of his father’s title—and on that matter at least, he was inclined to agree. He could see no reason to cross the threshold. With a bow, he bid Guin good night. She nodded her understanding and resumed her reading, turning the motion of her raised hand into a quick smoothing of her hair. No one else knew he had come. Or gone.
Still, he was reluctant to go to bed, fearful of the direction in which his dreams might tend. Would his mind conjure visions of some tropical vine curling sensuously about his limbs, rendering him a willing captive, while an enemy crept through the darkness to carve his secrets from the depths of his soul, like flesh from bone…?
With a shake, he dismissed the disturbing, jumbled image and set off through the dimly lit corridor in the direction of the library and Davies’s orderly stack of account books. Nothing like column upon column of figures to keep a man’s mind from wandering where it ought not go.
Chapter 11
Lady Viviane laid aside her pencil. “Surely you will want to join the other guests for dinner, Miss Burke.”
Startled by the sound of the girl’s voice, Erica’s normally steady hand sent a line shooting jaggedly across the page. They had spent the day in the conservatory, where Viviane had progressed from fern leaves to a delicate violet with remarkable rapidity, though her mind had a tendency to race ahead of her fingers when she sketched. The only disturbance, the only visitor, had been Mrs. Dean, who had brought them both trays at midday. Barring the rain, it had been a glorious day spent doing exactly what Erica had always wanted to do, and she was determined to think as little as possible about the man who had made it happen.
“No,” she demurred, without looking up. “Not really.”
Viviane picked up her pencil again, but instead of resuming her sketch, she began to tap one end against her palm. “If you don’t, it will seem as if you are hiding.”
“Hiding?” Still, she did not meet the girl’s gaze. “From whom would I be hiding?”
The duke’s guests. The duke. Myself.
“Well, perhaps not hiding, exactly,” Viviane conceded. “But I should think at times you’d like more company and conversation than a potted plant can provide. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I don’t find the study of botany stimulating.”
Stifling a sigh, Erica closed her journal. “Of course, Lady Viviane. I forgot myself and kept you at your task too long, today. You may go whenever you wish.”
The girl was on her feet so quickly the stool skidded across the flagstone floor. “And you, Miss Burke? You really ought to have a break yourself. Shall I come back and remind you before the dinner hour?”
Erica consented with an absent wave of one hand and went back to her notes. She was perfectly capable of ignoring one reminder. Or ten.
As it turned out, however, she was not capable of ignoring Viviane, who at half-past five drove Erica from the conservatory with all the gravitas of the archangel expelling Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, backed by Mr. Sturgess, who had been summoned to douse the lights and lock the door.
So it was she found herself a largely silent participant in another interminable meal—when one did not spill wine and run away, dining went on for hours, it seemed—followed by tea in the drawing room with the other ladies of the party. She drank cup after cup to keep from being expected to make conversation, and also in hopes that she would soon have a plausible excuse to flee in search of the necessary.
“Will you join us in a game of forfeits this evening, Miss Burke?” Caroline Pilkington bravely settled herself on the sofa beside Erica, which required Mrs. Newsome to shift and make room.
“Forfeits?” The vicar’s wife had not spoken all evening except to complain about the weather and mutter over whether her children’s nursemaid could be trusted to keep her “poor, motherless little ones” sufficiently dry. She sat so stiffly it was not possible for her to stiffen in indignation now, but she sniffed. “I do not approve of wagering.”
Erica studied both of them over the rim of her teacup. If she sketched faces, which she never did, she would render Miss Pilkington as an exquisite blossom and Mrs. Newsome as a dried-up twig.
“Nothing too serious, Mrs. Newsome,” Miss Pilkington replied with a musical laugh. “I propose a game of charades. The ladies shall ask riddles of the gentlemen, and the gentleman who answers a lady’s riddle correctly may request some small favor of her. A kiss, for example.”
“A kiss!” The word brought the vicar’s wife to her feet. “I’m shocked your mother would allow such a thing. As if wagering with money were not bad enough. To risk something more precious still…”
Across the room, Lady Easton Pilkington turned toward the commotion and cast a languid smile at her daughter, giving the impression of her approval, though Erica doubted she had heard a word of what had been said.
“I most certainly will not participate,” declared Mrs. Newsome, who set her teacup and saucer on the table with a clatter. “Nor countenance such indecency with my presence,” she added as she marched from the room, apparently recalling that she had not actually been invited to play.
A curve of amused satisfaction on her lips, Miss Pilkington returned her attention to Erica. “What about you, Miss Burke?”
With five siblings, both older and younger, Erica was more than familiar with the forms revenge might take. She knew it would be wisest to decline. But something about Miss Pilkington’s coolness made her burn. “Thank you,” she said, thrusting her chin upward as she spoke. “I’d be delighted.”
And promptly regretted it when the gentlemen filed into the room a moment later led by Tristan, who again this evening had donned his uniform and gleamed in awful scarlet splendor.
The gentlemen were more than amenable to Miss Pilkington’s suggestion. Even the vicar had a gleam of regret in his eye when he declined out of deference to his wife. The party thinned further when Lady Easton pleaded another headache and begged her husband to escort her up to their rooms. That left the youthful duchess to chaperone the competition,
for neither Sir Thomas nor his wife, the most senior of the guests by age, seemed at all inclined to enforce rules of proper behavior. The baronet even rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation, and Erica wondered whether her punishment for the spilled wine was intended to be his wet, whiskery kiss.
The gentlemen disposed themselves around the room: Lord Beresford took the seat Mrs. Newsome had vacated, while Captain Whitby chose the chair beside the duchess near the tea table. Tristan remained standing before the fire, for which Erica could only be grateful, as it made it easier to position herself so that he was not in her direct line of sight.
All eyes were on Miss Pilkington as she leaned forward to explain the rules of her game. “I’m sure you are all familiar with charades. Each lady shall pose a riddle to all the gentleman. The first to solve it shall win the prize.”
She did not specify the nature of the prize, but it was clearly understood from the various murmurs and smiles and even laughter that erupted around the room. Nor did it seem that the winners were to be determined entirely by either skill or luck. After a great deal of twittering and fussing, Lady Lydgate recited her puzzle:
“I’m a box without hinges, key, or lid,
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.”
Any child could have guessed it. Nevertheless, the gentlemen’s answers all fell wide of the mark, as if they deferred by prior accord to…Lord Beresford? Not her husband? To Erica’s shock, it was indeed the earl who pronounced the answer to be “an egg” and claimed his kiss full on the lady’s lips.
When Sir Thomas Lydgate answered the duchess’ somewhat more challenging riddle, he bowed gallantly and kissed her hand, as if to show how a true gentleman behaved.
Then it was Miss Pilkington’s turn. She made eye contact with each of the gentlemen, securing their undivided attention before saying slowly:
“My first is aloft in the air;
My second’s a path in the ground;
My third may be black, brown, or fair;
And my whole may be hanged, or be drowned.”
As one, all the heads swiveled toward the Duke of Raynham, who leaned with his forearm against the mantelpiece and stared contemplatively into the fire as he worked out the three syllables. An anticipatory silence buzzed in Erica’s ears. On the opposite side of the room, the longcase clock cleared its throat and struck the half-hour, making her jump.
“I do not know,” Tristan said finally, the hint of a self-deprecating smile playing about his lips as he looked toward Caroline and caught Erica’s eye on the way. Though she suspected him of telling an untruth, he did nothing to betray himself. No one would ever know for certain if he lied.
“A highwayman.” The voice came from the tea table. A confident Captain Whitby rose and crossed to Miss Pilkington beside her on the couch.
If she had not been seated so close to her, Erica would never have noticed the way Caroline’s fingers tightened eagerly in her skirt when Whitby leaned in for a quick buss of her cheek, nor would she have heard his teasing whisper: “You’re welcome.”
Didn’t Miss Pilkington want the duke’s kiss? Or had she suspected Tristan’s reluctance and attempted to test it? What a dangerous game she’d decided to play…
Those thoughts scattered when the company’s attention now focused on Erica. It was her turn to pose a riddle. She’d been weighing her options since the game began. To ask something simple and put an end to her misery? Or to rise to the challenge? Perhaps, if she were very clever, she could claim victory without giving away anything at all.
The trouble was, she had never been especially good at wordplay, and now that all eyes were upon her, the only charade she could recall was one she would rather not recite. Though she allowed the silence to stretch longer than was comfortable, no inspiration struck her. At last she sucked in a breath and blurted out the rhyme:
“My first is the spirit of life,
From whence all its happiness flows.
’Tis also the center of strife,
The fountain of sorrow and woes!
My second, I own, is a pain
In the stomach, the side, or the head;
But if on my first it should gain,
Then pleasure and joy are both fled.”
When she finished speaking, silence fell again. It was not a particularly difficult riddle. Had she truly stumped them?
Or did no one want to kiss her?
Finally, Lord Beresford guessed “toothache” in a reluctant, slightly embarrassed voice. “No, my lord,” she replied. Sir Thomas only shrugged and would not make an attempt.
“Beresford was right.” Tristan’s deep voice sent a quaver through her. “A pain is an ache. But I suspect the ‘spirit of life’ refers to the heart. The answer is ‘heartache.’”
Her gaze dropped to the carpet. Once more, she watched his glossy black boots make their way across a room to stop before her, the stride of a man who was sure he was right. “And the forfeit, as I understand it, is a kiss.” He held out his hand for hers, and for a moment, she was hopeful that he would follow Sir Thomas’s lead.
But with gentle pressure, he drew her to her feet. He meant to kiss her, not just her hand. No. Oh, no. The air seemed to rush from the room, taking with it all pretense of lighthearted entertainment. Though she’d agreed to play the game, she could not allow this. Even if—especially if—her blood was singing yes, yes as it coursed through her body and her nipples had tautened in anticipation, pressing almost painfully against the restraint of yet another of the duchess’ tight-fitting gowns.
He must have sensed her hesitation. “Is that not right, Miss Burke?”
Slowly, she lifted her chin and met his dark eyes. Despite the gallons of tea she had drunk, her mouth was dry and she had to wet her lips before she could speak. “No, Your Grace,” she insisted, praying she was as good at telling fibs as he. “Your answer was not correct.” Tugging her fingers free of his, she gathered up her skirts and hurried from the room.
* * * *
Of course, there could be no escaping the Duke of Raynham in his own house.
She had gone only a little way down the corridor when she heard his footsteps behind her. Still, she pressed on, not exactly sure where she was going but needing to get there all the same. And when she at last reached the door to the conservatory, she fumbled eagerly for the latch.
It was locked.
She leaned against the worn wood, into the warmth that seeped around its edges, longing for the tranquility, the comfort that lay just beyond her reach. Behind her, Tristan came onward at a steady pace, never hurrying to catch up nor calling out for her to wait. As if his success were never in doubt. Her heartbeat ratcheted higher with each step he took, until he stopped, just inches away.
Stretching one arm over her head, he felt along the top of the lintel and retrieved a stout, rusty key. Wordlessly, he inserted it into the lock. With her forehead still pressed against the door, she could feel the grating vibrations as he turned the key. As soon as the door sprang open, she stepped inside.
Moonlight flooded the conservatory, turning spiky leaves and curving vines into a fantastical landscape. Tipping her head back, she looked up, through the glass ceiling, into the expanse of a cloudless night sky.
“Maybe the storm is finally over,” Tristan said.
Over? Something very like regret welled within her. But why should that be? Only a moment before, she had been searching for a way to escape Hawesdale. To escape her attraction to him.
When she lowered her gaze enough to meet his, she saw that the moonlight had painted him too, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and turning his scarlet coat charcoal gray. Wordlessly, she stepped deeper into the room, to the ring of orange trees, and settled herself on one of the shadow-cloaked benches beneath them. He followed and sat beside her, at once too close and not close enough.
“Why did you come after me?”
“Why, to claim my prize, of course.” He leaned toward her and the safe distance between them evaporated. “Rules are rules, Miss Burke.”
She could feel the slight curve of a smile on his lips when they brushed hers. Of course he would be the sort of man who would insist upon following the rules. They’d been written all to his benefit. But she had never learned them.
The soft touch of his mouth on hers was strange. Not unwelcome, though she did not know how, or even whether, she ought to convey her enthusiasm to him. Despite the darkness, she closed her eyes, and for that moment of total blindness, immersed herself in the scents of damp soil, faded blossoms, and the spice of his cologne.
She was still fumbling for a proper beginning when he pulled away and the kiss was over. When she opened her eyes, it was to find him studying her, his eyes glittering, his dark brows knitted together. “It would seem I made a mistake,” he said.
The kiss. He means the kiss was a mistake. “The charade? No, you guessed right. The answer was…” She forced the word past lips that longed to be otherwise occupied. “Heartache. I lied because I—” Because I didn’t want you to kiss me. No, that was a lie too. She searched for some more believable excuse. “Because I—I—”
“Your engagement was not a love match, was it?” He spoke as if he had not heard a word she’d said. As if he were puzzling over some other riddle. Still dwelling, apparently, on their exchange of the day before.
She wished, suddenly, for the thunder of raindrops against the glass roof, something to drown out her tremulous whisper. “Why do you ask?”
“Because if your engagement had been a love match, I very much doubt I would have been the man to give you your first kiss.”
Only the fear of stumbling about in the dark kept her in her seat. With a hand on either side of her legs, she gripped the cool, polished iron of the bench. “No,” she agreed after a moment. “It was not a love match.”
“A marriage of convenience, then?”
The Duke's Suspicion (Rogues and Rebels) Page 13