Trowbridge chuckled. “You’d be one of the few. I think most men would find her to be the perfect wife. Beautiful, elegant, rich and silent. What better combination can there be?”
Reed glanced at Orelia. Some men might like their women silent, but he liked his brave and bold, and talkative with no thought of rank. He liked them like Orelia.
“Well, what can I say. She’s not for me, Lord Trowbridge.”
“I hope you might keep her in society for some time.”
“We are to return home tomorrow. My mother is keen to introduce her to some of the local families.”
“Ah, that is a shame.”
“I’m sure we shall be attending more events soon. The marquesa is hardly one to sit around and be bored.”
“Excellent. I shall be sure to extend any invitations I have to you. Can I catch you at Keswick Abbey?”
“Yes, most of the time. I do not travel as much as I used to.”
Trowbridge grimaced. “Nor I. My doctor is responsible for that, unfortunately. Too much sun, he says. So, alas, we are to remain in cold, old England.”
It was amusing how cold, old England did not seem so dreary now that Orelia was in it.
Reed glanced at him. “When did you return from your travels?”
“Some two weeks ago.”
So after the attempt on Napoleon’s life, but that did not necessarily mean anything.
“I had heard you were quite the avid wine collector,” Reed mused. “Did you pick some up on your travels?”
Interest sparked in Trowbridge’s eyes. “A wine man, are you?”
“Not especially but the marquesa does enjoy it. It seems you might have that in common.”
Trowbridge grinned. “It seems we might. You think she would enjoy seeing my collection?”
“I think she would. If you cannot share a language, a love of wine must surely be the next best thing.”
His grin expanded. “I’m mightily glad you attended tonight, Your Grace. You must return or come out to my country estate for some shooting, so I can thank you.”
Reed smiled, mostly to cover the foolish burning jealousy that was rising inside him. Trowbridge was falling for his plan perfectly. He could not have asked for it to go better. Yet he still loathed the man’s interest in Orelia.
“I shall show her after supper, that is, if I have your permission.”
Reed nodded. “Absolutely, though I must insist on accompanying you.”
“Naturally.”
Reed had the feeling he had just made Trowbridge’s evening. A shame he had no idea the reasons behind the plotting. At some point, he needed to catch Orelia’s eye and explain the plan. His hope was that if they could view his wine, they’d see if there were still bottles of Vin de Constance left.
He did not manage to catch her until they went into supper. That hint of nervousness was about her again, showing itself in the fluttering pulse at her neck.
“Just go slowly, do not touch the wine, let me and the gentleman next to you help, and copy the other ladies,” he said softly.
“I really do not think I can do this.” Her voice trembled.
“You did not think you could walk into a ballroom and charm every man in England, but you did that.”
“Not every man,” she exclaimed.
“A few women too, I think. Quite a few were interested in being friends with the exotic marquesa.”
“You don’t know how hard it was to remain quiet.”
“Keep it up,” he murmured. “It’s working. Lord Trowbridge wants to show you his wine collection after supper.”
She swung a look at him. “You will not leave me alone, will you?”
“I would not leave you alone with him, even if I believe you can fend for yourself.”
She chuckled and tucked her mouth behind her fan. “I had better return to being silent,” she said when they entered the dining room.
Gold patterned wallpaper mingled with bright red swathes of curtains. The long room was punctuated with sash windows at one end and another impressive chandelier. Not for the first time, and likely not for the last, he considered how perfectly Orelia fit in here. What a chameleon she was.
She stole a look at him as they sat. His chest compressed a little. This woman was going to be the death of him somehow, he was certain of that now.
Chapter Seventeen
Orelia could not help breathe a sigh of relief once supper was finished. She had never eaten in a formal setting before and most of the advice Reed had given her prior to the ball had seemed to vanish from her mind as she sat. Thankfully remaining quiet and patient had helped, and she’d been able to mimic the other ladies at the table whilst the gentleman at her side helped serve her.
Ensuring it was known she could not speak English had been a perfect ploy. Reed really was the most cunning man at times. It meant no one expected much of her. What would they think if she blurted out something common and coarse suddenly? The idea made her giggle.
“You are enjoying yourself, I hope?” Lord Trowbridge asked.
She gave a sort of half-shrug of confusion and smiled. Smiling worked well, she had discovered. Look a little confused and smile, and it seemed all the men adored it. Perhaps that was how they liked their women—confused and smiling.
“His Grace says you are interested in wine.”
She expanded her smile and nodded eagerly.
“I should like to show you my collection.”
Orelia glanced around for Reed who hastened to her side. He murmured in her ear as though trying to explain what the Lord wanted. In reality, he told her how beautiful she was.
She hoped she wasn’t blushing. The way he had looked at her all night seemed to have put permanent heat in her cheeks. While she certainly enjoyed wearing the finery and appreciated the work the maids had put into ensuring she looked the part, she hardly thought of herself as rivalling any of the beautiful young women in attendance.
Their host led them down to the wine cellar. He lit a candle and escorted them through the dark undercroft. A chill made her skin bump and the air smelled damp. Though the viscount seemed harmless, if a little flirtatious, she was grateful to have Reed at her side.
“An impressive collection,” Reed murmured.
“Thank you. I picked up what I could on my travels. La marquesa here should like my Spanish collection.” He motioned to a large rack filled with bottles. She could not help wonder if he ever intended to drink the wine or merely let it sit there forever.
“Do you have any French wines?” Reed asked. “They must be hard to come by after the war.”
“They are but they’re getting easier to purchase now.” He glanced around as though someone might be listening in. “I was in contact with a few merchants who were able to sneak some in.” He lifted the candle to reveal yet more rows of wine. “Here is my French collection. I hope to expand it in time now that we are trading with France again.”
Orelia’s heart began to pound. This was what they were looking for.
Pasting on a smile, she stepped forward and looped her arm through the viscount’s. He startled slightly but settled into it rapidly, even drawing her closer. It was not horribly uncomfortable to be at his side and a slight pang of guilt hit her. If he had nothing to do with the attempt on Napoleon, she was toying with his feelings for no reason.
It would be worth it, she reminded herself. Her people would no longer be suspected, and further war would be prevented.
She motioned to the few other racks of wine ahead, indicating she wanted to look at more and Trowbridge chuckled.
“You really do like wine, do you not?”
Orelia simply smiled and urged him on. Reed lingered behind them and she prayed she could give him enough time to peer at the bottles.
After they’d strolled the length of the cellar, with Lord Trowbridge pointing out various wines and drawing them out occasionally, she stole a peek over her shoulder. Reed gave her a subtle nod and lounged against
a casket in a nonchalant manner.
“Your guests will be missing you, Trowbridge,” he called.
The viscount chuckled. “You are right. We had better get back. No doubt they are missing the marquesa too.”
Orelia tried to control her blush for what had to be the hundredth time that night. She had never had so much male attention. A few kisses and a fumbled moment with one man that she regretted, yes, but there had never been all this…flirting.
However, though she could not deny enjoying it somewhat, she knew they only liked the mystery about her. If they knew the real her, and her true heritage, they would run for miles. She smiled to herself. Only Reed made her feel as though being a Romani was nothing to be ashamed of and that, actually, he enjoyed her company and her definite non-silence.
They headed back up to the ballroom and Orelia took Reed’s arm once more. He gave her a little nudge and a smile. She wasn’t sure exactly what he meant but it had to be good news.
The dancing went on for several more hours and gradually guests flitted away from exhaustion. She rather hoped to do the same, but Reed insisted they maintained their pretense for just a little while longer. She smiled and nodded and looked confused for at least another hour more by her reckoning until he called it a night.
The viscount gave a deep dip and smiled into her eyes. The desire to look away and blush meant she had to lift her fan to cover her face. His smile only grew at this action. After a night of so much male attention, she wanted to roll her eyes. The novelty was wearing off rapidly.
How was it such apparent bashfulness and silence appealed so much to these men of society? At least with her people she was not expected to be meek and silent. Goodness knows, her mother was far from silent and there were many strong-headed Romani women.
“I hope to see you again,” Lord Trowbridge muttered, his gaze seeming to cling to her.
She dipped and gave the same smile she’d been holding all evening. It was not until Reed helped her into his carriage did she feel she could let it drop.
“My cheeks hurt!”
He chuckled and tapped the roof. “You were wonderful.”
She turned to him. “So? What news? Is he our man?”
He shook his head and pushed open the curtain behind him to let in a little more of a glow from the outer lamps. “Not at all. Though I began to suspect as much when he agreed to show us the wine.”
“Yes, it seemed odd that a potential murderer might display his intended means of killing someone. And he was quite pleasant.”
He gave her an odd look—almost pained. “Well, the wine was all there so he’s not our man.”
“So it must be our first man, yes?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he nodded. “And Lord knows where he is, but I’ll put my contacts onto it on the morrow.”
“At least we likely do not need to resort to anymore playacting.”
She rested her head back against the plush seat. Closed-carriage riding was something she did not think she would ever get used to. All that movement and the horse hooves and yet she was unable to see a thing or feel the air on her face. She had to admit, however, after a long evening of being on her feet and smiling at everyone, it was luxurious to sit on a soft seat rather than a hard bench.
“You were wonderful,” he told her again. “Too wonderful?”
Orelia straightened. “Too wonderful?”
“Yes, you had most of the male population and even some of the female half in love with you. As for Lord Trowbridge, I think he was about ready to propose.”
A laugh escaped her. “I doubt that.”
“He questioned your marriage prospects.”
She blinked at him. “And what did you say?”
“I said that you were a rich widow, hoping to remarry.”
“Well no wonder he was interested. You should have said I had not a penny to my name! It would have been the first bit of truth spoken all night.”
“We needed him to remain interested in you. Though I have a feeling that at this point, he would not care one jot if you were penniless.”
Orelia huffed. “I highly doubt that. But, alas, I am, and he would have been even more put off by my heritage, you and I both know that.”
“Then he would be a fool.”
He leaned in and the air in the coach vanished. Not even the sound of the horses moving at a pace penetrated the hard exterior. Everything seemed to fall silent. In the faint glow of the lamps, his eyes were deep and intense. She could not look away.
“I’m glad he was a fool,” he muttered. “I am glad they are all fools.” He stroked a finger down her cheek and dropped it onto her bottom lip. She parted her mouth and he ran his finger across her lip and up over her cupid’s bow, seemingly mesmerized. “I am glad they do not see what I see. You are a Romani, Orelia, and that has made you into the strong, courageous woman I see before me. Don’t regret your heritage.”
“I try not to,” she said, “but it’s hard when people treat you so differently.”
“Do I treat you differently?” His finger had come back up to the side of her face and he traced it over her cheek.
“Never.”
“I want to,” he whispered harshly. “I want to treat you so very differently.”
“What do you—”
He shifted closer and drew her into his arms in a moment. “I want to hold you. Touch you. Kiss you.”
A tiny moan escaped her.
He must have taken that as her consent. She was grateful he did. His lips hit her neck first, hot and open. Her moan was louder this time.
Reed worked his mouth up to the dip behind her ear, sealed his teeth briefly around her lobe before pressing his mouth to hers.
Orelia dug her fingers into his neck and moved with him. Their tongues clashed. This kiss was hot, demanding, desperate—as though he had been waiting all night to do it. She felt his frustration there. Perhaps it had been the same frustration as hers. Perhaps he had spent all evening looking at her and wishing he could touch her openly.
His hand came to cup her breast through her stays. She sucked in a long gasp of air. Despite the fabric between his palm and her flesh, he might as well have touched bare skin, such was the sweet, sharp relief of the pressure. He kissed her deeply, his tongue chasing hers and he smoothed his palm across her breast, teasing her nipple against the fabric of her undergarments.
“Orelia,” he groaned harshly.
She released her own whimper in response. Lord, how much more she wanted. More kisses, more touches. His hands upon her bare skin. She’d known Reed was different from early on. She even understood she had never desired a man quite like she desired him. But she had never expected it quite to be like this.
The carriage jerked suddenly and came to a halt. Dazed, Orelia lifted her head but he would not release her mouth. She surrendered quickly.
“We are home,” he muttered, drawing her tighter into his hold.
Home. What an odd idea that was. Keswick Abbey was far too grand to ever feel like her home. However, being in Reed’s arms felt like home. She’d never understood what such a concept could be really. For the first time in her life, she comprehended it.
And actually, it held quite a bit of appeal.
A sharp rap on the door dragged them apart. Reed pushed open the door. “Do you mind, we will—”
An attractive older woman with grey-streaked dark hair and tightly pursed lips stood in the doorway. Reed cursed under his breath.
“Good evening, Mother.”
His mother narrowed her eyes at Orelia. “Been keeping yourself busy I see?”
Orelia blushed from root to toe. If only the shadows of the carriage would swallow her. Or a convenient hole opened up in the ground.
“I did not expect you back so soon,” Reed said lightly.
“As I can see. Now, would you like to tell me exactly why you have been taking in homeless girls and conducting scandalous behavior in Portsmouth?”
H
e threw a glance at Orelia and gave her hand a little squeeze.
“In time, Mother. We have had rather a busy evening and Orelia needs rest.”
The look of fury on the dowager duchess’s face had Orelia surprised none of them shot up in flames, such was the heat of the anger there.
Reed stepped out and helped Orelia down as though they were back at the ball and no more than an elegant lady and gentleman instead of a duke and a Romani woman. More specifically, a Romani woman wearing the duchess’s dress.
Though Orelia kept her gaze lowered, she could feel his mother’s hot gaze boring into the back of her. She had been right. Keswick Abbey would never feel like home. Nor could Reed’s arms. She did not belong here or in the arms of a duke. What a foolish girl she was.
Chapter Eighteen
Really it was quite the miracle his mother had not exploded overnight. Or at the morning meal. As they sat in the breakfast room, the fire in his mother’s eyes did a lot more to warm the room than the sun streaming through the generous windows. It seemed his brother had opted not to join them for breakfast—and Reed could not blame him one jot.
“Did you enjoy your trip, Mother?” Reed asked lightly.
Orelia, he noticed, had barely touched her food. She remained seated, her chin lowered, and picked at a bread roll. He was almost surprised she had not fled during the night but apparently his assurances all would be well before putting her to bed had worked.
How long it would take him to ensure all really was well was another thing. His mother was hardly known for her light-hearted temperament and bringing a gypsy girl into what she might as well still consider her house was hardly the best way to greet her upon her return.
“It was pleasant,” his mother said tightly.
“Excellent.” He kept his tone bright. “And what of Aunt Rosamunde?”
“She is well.”
“Excellent,” he repeated.
Though his mother had tried her best to berate him the previous night, he had allowed her little chance, declaring exhaustion and stealing away upstairs whilst reminding her she needed rest too. Telling his mother in a roundabout way that she was old and tired had not been his wisest move, but she had been so shocked, she’d been unable to reply and thus it worked quite nicely for the night. Somehow, he suspected she would not have forgotten such a comment and his ears were likely in for a blistering today.
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