by Lynn Kurland
“He’s big,” Peaches said, her mouth dry. “Bigger than the other one.”
“Aye, miss,” Andrews said, looking at her seriously, “but he’s the gentlest one here. He’s schooled scores of riders without losing a one.”
“Schooled them?” she squeaked.
The groom only winked at her and walked off to see to his charge. Peaches looked up at Stephen.
“How did you know to pick this one?”
“Nobility school.”
She decided what made her want to punch him the hardest was that she was never quite sure when he was teasing and when he wasn’t. She scowled at him. “Not galloping down the stairs of your father’s hall on a stick horse, waving a sword over your head and bellowing like a banshee?”
“The de Piagets do not bellow,” he said calmly. “We express our emotions in measured tones.” He started to walk away, then looked over his shoulder. “And it wasn’t a stick horse, it was a rocking horse named Dante that scraped my mother’s floors to bits.”
Before she could comment on that, she was swept up into intrigues and looks of alarm and disdain. And that was just her interactions with the horse.
“A leg up, miss?” the head groom asked.
Why not?
By the time she had bathed, dressed for dinner, then managed to choke most of it down, she had had it. Country house parties were just not for her. No matter how gentle her horse had been rumored to be, she’d been convinced the entire morning she was a heartbeat away from landing on her face. She had prayed she would simply survive the ride after which she would have gone straight to bed with visions of fairy tales still dancing in her head.
Only then she would have missed the current, singular experience of having the Duke of Kenneworth seat her next to him in a chair closest to the fire and flirt with her.
As he was currently doing.
She hadn’t been born yesterday, so she knew he was hitting on her. And she had to admit she was utterly, completely, thoroughly flattered and all aflutter. He was just so … just right.
She glanced across the salon not because she needed to, but because she always wanted to know where Stephen was so she could avoid him. He, unlike David, was just wrong. That morning had been a perfect example of just how wrong he was.
He had gone out of his way to ride next to her, no doubt so he could mock her later when he had time to do a proper job of it. So what if he’d carried on a conversation that she could easily hear about his first lessons on the back of a horse, which he of course could hardly remember because he’d been at it so long? If he had bored those around him with a droning discussion of beginning-rider technique, apparently he just hadn’t cared. No matter what his mother might have thought, she was convinced his manners definitely needed a polish.
Unlike David Preston who probably taught advanced studies in manners at Stephen de Piaget’s nobility school.
“I’ll be back in a flash, love,” David said, smiling just for her as he rose. “Off to refill the glass, of course.”
Peaches nodded and smiled, though she couldn’t understand why his numerous servants couldn’t have seen to his glass. Maybe he was trying to show her what an ordinary guy he was.
Unfortunately, that left his seat open. Irene Preston flopped down into it, grumbling loudly.
“All Haulton wants to talk about is his ridiculous charities,” she snapped. “This is a bloody party, not a selection of potential donors.”
“Language, Irene,” Raphaela said mildly. “And I don’t think Lord Stephen views your friends as potential donors. He’s simply looking for something to add to the conversation besides his views on footballers and their scandals.”
“Oh, Mother, you’re so naive.”
Peaches didn’t think Raphaela was naive at all, but decided it was best not to offer her opinion. It was instructive enough to simply listen to the conversation around her and try to look as if she were interested.
Stephen? Charities? She could hardly believe it. She looked up into the mirror and saw David talking to Stephen, looking as if he were trying to talk him into something. Perhaps David had his own list of charities he contributed to. Stephen continued to say no in very calm, measured tones—he was a de Piaget, after all—which eventually left David saying something even she could see was very foul before he turned and stalked away.
She tried to concentrate on the ensuing discussion of Paris Fashion Week being carried on between Raphaela and Andrea, but she found that she was very distracted by the memory of the missing Duke of Kenneworth, who had flattered and flirted with her so deliciously that she was still feeling very weak in the knees. She patted her knees for good measure, just to be sure. Yes, very weak. In fact, it was probably for the best that she was still sitting just so she could recover. When it came to David Preston, it was best to stay put so her limbs weren’t put under undue strain.
Not like that horrible heir to Artane and no doubt numerous other titles who didn’t make her knees weak; he made her feet want to carry her off in another direction, quickly.
She was slightly surprised to find that others weren’t making tracks for the door. As she watched Stephen in the mirror she had to admit, very grudgingly, that the man could certainly work a room. She’d seen it the day before, but she had thought it was a fluke.
She studied him a bit longer in the mirror and had to concede that at least he didn’t seem to be boring anyone with obscure details about medieval battle strategies. David had given up on him, but other men actually seemed to be talking to him about, well, football from what she could hear.
The women, that trio of debutantes plus a fair number of other guests, seemed to be keeping themselves from brawling to get near him only out of respect for the antiques in the room.
“Dukes’ daughters.”
Peaches looked at Raphaela. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Those three glaring daggers at you are dukes’ daughters, chérie,” Raphaela said, in French. “Perhaps we’ll have a walk in the garden tomorrow where I might tell you about their families.”
“Or we could talk about compost.”
Raphaela laughed lightly. “Are you not interested at all in Lord Haulton?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you interested in my son?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Peaches asked honestly. “He’s perfect.”
Raphaela only lifted one eyebrow briefly, then turned to Irene and English again.
Peaches had no idea what to make of that exchange, so she decided it would be wisest to make nothing of it at all.
She couldn’t deny that she was rather glad when the evening wound down and she was able to say good night. David was still nowhere to be found, but Peaches saw several other men were missing as well, so perhaps there had been some late-night football on the telly.
She was slightly surprised to have Raphaela walk her to her room, with Stephen and his gentleman’s personal gentleman following fifty feet behind them. Raphaela seemed not to notice as she deposited Peaches in her room with a gracious good night and retreated back up the way. Peaches wasn’t sure what to make of Stephen leaning against the wall, watching her instead of his host’s mother. Maybe he wanted his overcoat back.
She looked for it inside, but it was gone, perhaps returned to its owner. What was left, however, was Edwina sitting on her stool, quite obviously still in charge. Edwina rose majestically and gestured to one of the hooks.
“Something,” she said gravely, “has arrived.”
Peaches’s first thought was that it was an eviction notice, but since there wasn’t all that much to be evicted from, she wasn’t going to stress over it. She watched as Edwina reached for a garment bag that was excessively long and excessively expensive-looking and thought she should probably just sit down.
So she sat down on the end of her bed and looked at her maid expectantly.
“Are you prepared, miss?”
Peaches thought about tossing off some
remark that she hadn’t seen a wheatgrass juicer in the kitchen so she was less prepared than she might otherwise have been, but the moment seemed to call for seriousness. She sat up straight and looked at Edwina.
“I think I am as prepared as I’ll manage to be,” she said honestly.
Edwina frowned, as if she’d just taken measure of the state of the queen’s armada and found it not quite up to snuff, but good enough for the battle at hand. She reached for the zipper of the garment bag, then looked at Peaches.
“Your gown, miss.”
Peaches gasped. It was better than fainting, which was her first inclination.
It looked as if her fairy tale might be coming true after all.
Chapter 10
Stephen was nervous.
He wasn’t accustomed to being nervous. The fact of the matter was, he was too damned old to be nervous. His blood pressure might occasionally find itself elevated during a spirited argument over this medieval detail or that, and his pulse might race now and again when seeing one of his competing colleagues sneaking into the back of his lectures to steal his academic discoveries, but a simple case of nerves? Never.
Then again, he had never in his life had the dreams of a woman he was hopelessly fond of riding on his ability to send his valet off with a credit card to see her properly dressed. Even though being unsettled over the potential for sartorial disasters was ridiculous, he was unsettled nonetheless.
Because even though the goods had been delivered, there was still the possibility that the gown would be too long and the shoes too tight.
He suppressed the urge to rub his hands over his face and instead clasped them behind his back where they would be out of his way. That had the added benefit of rendering himself incapable of flinging either vintage dishes or modern fire irons at the indiscreet Duke of Kenneworth, who had spent the previous night gambling with funds he didn’t have. Stephen was quite sure Kenneworth planned to spend the night lying in front of them gambling with something quite a bit more precious—namely Peaches Alexander’s heart.
He wished he drank, for he would have indulged in a post-brunch double. Wasn’t it enough that he was wringing his hands—figuratively, of course—over the possibility that shoes and a dress wouldn’t suit? Did he also have to face the fact that he might be completely mad for a woman he wasn’t quite sure he should like and definitely shouldn’t love?
He watched Kenneworth walk around the room, attending to his hosting duties, and suppressed the urge to cross the room and plow his fist into the duke’s face. The man was notorious for finding innocent lassies, wooing them into more than just darkened corners, then dropping them without troubling himself over the mess he’d left behind. If Stephen had had a sister, he would have forbid her any association with the lout. As it was, he did have a cousin or two who had had the misfortune of a brush with the man, but he’d nipped that in the bud.
Thinking about Kenneworth plying his trade on that innocent Yank had Stephen grinding his teeth, and not just because he knew what an absolute reprobate the duke was.
It was whom he was planning to ply his trade on, actually, that set Stephen’s teeth on edge.
He looked away before he said or did something he would regret. Unfortunately, the next most interesting thing in the room happened to be his trio of on-again-off-again girlfriends who had apparently banded together to make his life hell. He attempted a polite smile and had hard stares in return.
Well, he perhaps had no one but himself to blame there. He’d brushed off the suggestions for walks, strolls, and ambles through either deserted hallways or wintery gardens with excuses he couldn’t quite remember but was sure amounted to, “have a bit of a headache, sorry.”
He jumped a little when he realized Raphaela Preston had sidled up to him. Actually, the woman didn’t sidle, she glided. The material point was, she was wearing an expression of serenity that he was sure boded very ill for his peace of mind.
“What?” he muttered grimly.
“Why, Haulton, your temper is ferocious tonight.”
“Bad eggs for breakfast.”
She laughed and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I have a few—how is it you would put it?—ah, yes, a few tidings for you, darling.”
He could hardly wait.
“Your harem is plotting your demise,” Raphaela said with the smirk of a cat who had just polished off an entire pitcher of cream and wouldn’t be suffering injuries to its tum anytime soon. “They’ve been huddled together all day discussing their plans.”
“Cut brake lines or ptomaine poisoning?” Stephen asked sourly.
“I believe they would prefer to see you drawn and quartered, but rumor has it they feared retribution from the authorities. I understand they’ve limited themselves to seeing you eviscerated in the press.”
“A pity I never do anything controversial.”
“They’re planning on lying.”
Stephen pursed his lips. “I hope they enjoy it.”
She looked up at him in surprise, then laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure they shall. Shall I tell you what else I know?”
“Is it possible to tell you to stop politely?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, politely. “Our sweet American was rather curious at the breakfast you couldn’t seem to find your way to this morning about some additions to her bedroom. I told her I thought they might have been sent by my son.” She blinked innocently. “What do you think?”
“That you are far too lovely and discreet to be called meddlesome,” Stephen said, putting his hand over hers. “Unfortunately.”
Raphaela looked at that son prowling around the room, looking particularly loathsome in his perfect evening wear. She studied him for quite some time in silence, then shook her head slowly.
“He should marry.”
“He should,” Stephen agreed. “The sooner, the better.”
Raphaela looked up at him. “Does your mother say the same thing to you?”
“Often.”
Raphaela studied him with the same searching look—he shifted in spite of himself—then went back to her contemplation of her son. “Miss Alexander is not for him.”
“Because she doesn’t have a title, or money, or pedigree?” Stephen asked lightly. “And haven’t we had this conversation before?”
“If we haven’t, we should have, and no, that isn’t the reason. And I phrased it badly. I should have said, he is not for her.”
Stephen remained silent—and to his mind it was wisely done.
“He will break her heart.” Raphaela looked up at him. “But you wouldn’t, would you?”
Stephen started to speak, then shut his mouth because there was nothing to be said. He took a deep breath. “Why do you like her?”
“Because she is charming and honest and laughs at an old woman’s attempts at humor. And she speaks French very well. You should have her examine yours for flaws.”
“That might take a while.”
Raphaela smiled. “And so it might, which I doubt would trouble you. You’re very welcome, Stephen darling, for the idea. Since you seem to be running short of ways to have her to yourself.”
“She doesn’t like me,” he said with a sigh.
“What did you do?”
He laughed a little. “Why would you assume it’s my fault?”
“Because, cher, you are a man,” Raphaela said simply.
“I’m insulted.”
“Not inspired?”
“I was taught from an early age to bite my tongue when so inspired.”
“Your mother is my good friend, in spite of my late husband and hers who has no love for my son. I don’t see enough of her. But I believe you and I were talking about something else entirely. What did you do to my darling Peaches to anger her so?”
Stephen sighed. “I draw breath in and let it out. Unfortunately, that letting out seems to be occasionally accompanied by words.”
“Made an arse of yourself, did you?
” she asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Repeatedly.”
“Well, then why don’t you apologize?” She shrugged. “That seems simple enough to me.”
“For what purpose?” he asked very quietly. “There can be nothing between us.”
She made a noise of impatience. “Stephen, you have spent too much time with your head buried in medieval texts. This is the twenty-first century and many things are allowed.”
“You don’t know my grandmother—”
“Do you worry she’ll cut off your allowance if you wed where you prefer?” Raphaela asked lightly. “And yes, I know her very well, the old witch. She terrifies me, and I am not seeking her approval on my choice of spouse. I’m a little surprised you’re allowing her to have an opinion on yours.”
Stephen started to speak, but Raphaela shook her head.
“I understand what you face, for it is a part of my life I would rather do without. But we have our duties, don’t we?” She turned back to her contemplation of her son. “His father indulged him too much and I wasn’t strong enough to counter it. His elder brother would have made a better heir, of course, if he had lived …” She took a deep breath and smiled. “All behind us now, isn’t it? The future beckons and David must wed. Not your lady, though. If Kenneworth is to be saved, it will take a very strong woman to manage him and the house, too. Money would help, of course, but I would prefer someone sensible to manage what we already have.” She pulled her hand away and smiled. “I believe I’ll put a stop to the champagne. It is much too early for that sort of thing.”
Stephen watched her go and almost wished he hadn’t heard that last bit. Perhaps his family wasn’t perfect, but they worked hard and appreciated what they had. He had wondered, when he hadn’t had anything better to do, about David Preston’s lavish lifestyle and how he managed to afford it. He lived like a man who thought his ship was about to come in, a ship he had already seen out in the harbor and knew was near to docking.