At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  It worried her that Wessex had only called on Helen a few times. How could one marry on such short acquaintance? She could forgive her sister, who had, no doubt, been dazzled by his rank and broad shoulders and very handsome face, but she hoped the duke hadn’t chosen Helen because she was beautiful, demure, and dutiful. He must be a very busy man, and if he didn’t spend time with his bride, he would never know how wonderful Helen was. And if he made Helen miserable ...

  She sighed and walked on toward the irises. As strong as her instinct was to protect Helen, this was not her battle. Helen had chosen him, and she must have had her reasons. Again her father’s warning echoed in her mind: Hold your tongue or you will be dead to all of us.

  The rain grew a little harder, and she shook out her shawl, intending to drape it over her head. She had two weeks to take the duke’s measure. The duke had two weeks to recognize what a jewel Helen was.

  “Are you well?”

  She jumped at the sound of the voice, dropping her shawl in the process. The man she had just been thinking of stood behind her. “No, no,” she said, flustered, then corrected herself. “That is, I’m quite well, thank you. I was just admiring the roses.”

  The Duke of Wessex stooped to retrieve her shawl. “My mother is a passionate gardener. She’ll be pleased you admire her work.”

  “Very much so,” she said with enthusiasm. “They’re superb!”

  “She does dote upon them,” he agreed.

  “Everything beautiful must be nurtured and loved.” Cleo reached toward a pink rose that climbed up a nearby wall. “Nothing could bloom this profusely without a great deal of care.”

  He cleared his throat. “And a large contingent of gardeners.”

  She laughed. “I am sure they help as well, but this is a garden of love. Don’t you agree?”

  The duke didn’t move. “Love?”

  Cleo vaguely knew she ought to mention her sister, but the intensity in his dark eyes jangled her thoughts. “Yes. Love for the plants … although also a place where one might be moved to steal a kiss in the shrubbery.”

  She had shocked him. His eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. Oh dear; she’d let her mouth run away from her already.

  “Indeed. You may be correct,” said the duke before she could apologize. “Forgive me if I interrupted your study of the roses and the—er—shrubbery. I was on my way to see a tree.”

  “A tree?” she echoed, grasping at a new topic gratefully.

  “It was struck by lightning, or so I was told.”

  Cleo remembered the tremendous crack of lightning when they first arrived. “Oh, yes! I almost fell off the carriage step, it startled me so. I hope the tree didn’t damage anything.”

  His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes were piercing as he looked at her. “Likely not. We are positively overrun with oaks at Kingstag. I expect we’ll all be glad of the lightning when the tree is fueling our fires.”

  She grinned in surprise, not having expected a duke to pay attention to what went into his fireplaces. “How very practical.”

  For a moment his gaze seemed to snag on her smile. Cleo wiped it away at once. Oh dear, had her impulsive nature already managed to offend? But all he said was, “Quite.”

  She wet her lips. The rain was growing harder now, although the duke didn’t seem to mind. “I think I ought to go back to the house now. The rain …” She held up one hand as if to catch the drops falling around them.

  He looked up as if just noticing the rain. “Of course. And here I am, holding your shawl.” He handed it back to her.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Until dinner?”

  He thrust one hand through his hair, sweeping the wild locks back over his forehead. It exposed his sharp cheekbones and firm jaw more starkly. Cleo was impressed in spite of herself. Gracious, how could Helen not want him to whisk her into the shrubbery? “Until dinner, Mrs. Barrows.” He bowed and walked on, his boots crunching on the gravel.

  Cleo flung the tail of her shawl over her head and hurried toward the house. Suddenly, two weeks didn’t seem so long after all.

  Chapter Three

  It was an eternity before the dinner hour finally arrived.

  Gareth delayed going to the drawing room. He smoothed his cravat and tugged at his jacket, trying not to notice how his heart seemed to be thudding very hard against his ribs. He hadn’t seen his bride since the Greys arrived. That was perfectly expected; no doubt she had wanted a chance to rest from the journey and refresh herself. The fact that he kept picturing Mrs. Barrows—instead of Miss Grey, his chosen bride—reclining against the pillows of her bed was surely just a result of the lightning strike. It must have been closer than he’d thought and disordered his brain. No doubt as soon as he saw her at dinner, he would realize how mistaken that first electrifying impression had been.

  Of course, he’d met her for a moment in the garden and nothing had happened to change it. On the contrary; she’d called it a garden of love and mentioned kissing in the shrubbery, and his mind had almost ceased working.

  But now it was time to see her, along with his bride and her parents and even—God help him—all his family. His sisters were wildly excited to meet Miss Grey, and his mother had deemed dinner the proper time. Perhaps some of his bride’s quiet self-possession would wear off on Bridget especially, he thought, trying not to think how Mrs. Barrows’s lively nature was far more like his siblings’.

  He took a deep breath. What was the matter with him? It must have been the lightning. Once he met the lady in proper, dignified circumstances, he would revert to his usual sane, rational self. Surely a longer acquaintance would confirm what he truly believed, that Helen Grey was the best possible choice for his duchess. She would be an excellent hostess, a kind mother, and a good role model for his sisters. She would look beautiful on his arm. He would have her dowry property, which he had long coveted. Just thinking through the logical, sane reasons why he wanted this match had a calming effect. He had made the right choice, and his odd fascination with her sister was merely a passing flight of fancy.

  The door opened behind him and James Blair came in. The storm had blown away, and Blair’s expression was once more calm and equable. He would be at dinner tonight as well, as he often was at family dinners or when there was an unescorted lady present. Gareth had even excused him from most of his duties for the next fortnight; Blair had spent a great deal of time around the Greys this spring, and he could help smooth any awkward moments that might arrive as the families mingled. “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to fear you’d left me to face the ladies all by myself.”

  “Sir William would be there.”

  “I had hoped for more,” said Gareth dryly.

  “And here I am.” Blair made a grimace. “In desperate need of a drink, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes.” Gareth seized on the word. Now that his cousin mentioned it, a drink sounded like just the thing. “A brilliant idea.” He went to the cabinet in the corner and poured two measures of brandy, glad of something to do.

  “I’ve decided to grant your wish regarding Mrs. Barrows,” said Blair then, with no warning at all.

  The brandy bottle seemed to lurch in his hand, spilling liquor on the silver tray beneath the glass. “What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his back to his cousin as he hastily mopped up the liquid.

  “That I act as her escort this fortnight.”

  “Ah yes.” Gareth had forgotten that request. It had seemed a natural one to make a week ago, when all he knew was that Helen Grey’s older widowed sister would be part of the party. Blair had already agreed to do that; why did he have to bring it up now? “I thought we’d settled that a week ago.”

  “I was uncertain.” Blair accepted a glass of brandy. “But after meeting her today, I believe I may enjoy her company a great deal.”

  Gareth was struck motionless. “Why?” was all he managed to ask. Had Blair also met her in the garden? Hadn’t he been cowed
by the threat of lightning? For some reason, Gareth was wildly irked that his cousin might have seen her with raindrops glistening on her skin. Damn it, maybe they’d better go in to dinner at once, so he could take another long look at her and cure his irrational interest right away.

  Blair seemed not to notice his tension. “I suspect she is the source of some tension in the family. There was something about the way she pressed her lips together when she stepped out of the carriage.”

  He pictured her mouth and took a gulp of his drink. “She’s a widow with her own home. Perhaps there’s something in her own life, and not her family’s, that gave her pause.”

  “No doubt. She married a shopkeeper when she was only seventeen, and she still owns and runs the shop.”

  A shopkeeper’s wife. Gareth either hadn’t paid attention to that part of James’s report on the Grey family or hadn’t cared enough to remember. “Where is the shop?” he asked, instantly chagrined that he had done so. Why did that matter?

  “In Melchester, near Grey’s property. A rather large draper’s shop.”

  A draper’s shop. He pictured her running her fingers over bolts of brilliant silks, gauzy laces, satin ribbons. He tossed back the last of his brandy. Why did she run the shop? Ladies did no such thing; his mother would have fainted away at the thought of managing a shop. “How independent. What do you suspect, Blair?” He tried to get back to the main topic, which was ... oh yes. Mrs. Barrows’s secrets. The way she pressed her lips together. “Is this shop a dark family secret?”

  Blair shook his head. “No, although you won’t hear a word about it from Sir William. The man has a supremely inflated sense of himself, and I doubt he approves.”

  “No, I expect not.” Gareth’s one overriding impression of his soon-to-be in-laws was pride. Sir William clung to it, and Lady Grey couldn’t hide her delight in having a connection to Wessex. He rather doubted a merchant in the family had been as agreeable to the Greys. “Why did she marry a shopkeeper?” he murmured, almost to himself.

  “Apparently she loved him.” Blair’s faint grin returned. “I told you: impulsive, bold, and passionate. She’s a woman who isn’t afraid to pursue what she wants.”

  Oh, Lord. He raised his glass and realized it was already empty. “Do you think that might be causing this tension you noticed?” he asked, grasping at Blair’s earlier comment.

  “I’m not certain.” Blair spoke slowly. “Didn’t you remark it? I wasn’t aware of it earlier, in London, but it was almost palpable when they arrived.”

  Gareth frowned. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss—well, he hadn’t noticed much of anything beyond Mrs. Barrows’s mouth and eyes and the way her skirt swayed as she climbed the stairs, none of which had struck him as remotely amiss. “I wonder why. Could it be the wedding?” He lowered his voice, watching his cousin closely. “Do you think Miss Grey or her parents want to break the engagement?”

  Blair seemed startled. He turned to Gareth, a frown creasing his forehead. “I highly doubt it, Wessex. What made you say that?”

  Yes, what had made him say that? He had no idea. This morning, he had been highly pleased with his impending marriage and his choice of bride. Not one wisp of hesitation had clouded his mind, not even his mother’s gentle chiding about love and affection. Then a woman—the wrong woman—looked up at him with sparkling brown eyes and it seemed as though all his logical decisions had been made hastily and foolishly, based on air. Now he had just asked, without any forethought at all, if his bride might be planning to jilt him. Even worse, there had been a thread of hope in his question.

  What was wrong with him tonight? His mother had planned a wedding celebration that would be spoken of for years to come. Dozens of guests would be arriving in a matter of days. The marriage contract was signed. The bride was upstairs, probably already planning how she would redecorate when the duchess’s suite was hers. The marriage was going to happen. Gareth must have lost his mind to contemplate—let alone contemplate with equanimity—anything else.

  “Nothing,” he said, telling himself it was true. “You made it sound very ominous, and that was the most alarming thing I could think of on the spot. The wedding is in a fortnight, after all.”

  Blair’s shoulders eased. “Of course.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. Well, thank you for sharing your concern with me. If anything particular comes up, do let me know.”

  “Of course I will. I shall do my best to learn Mrs. Barrows’s secrets.”

  For some reason, that didn’t sit too well with Gareth. He cast a longing glance at the brandy decanter but resolutely set down his glass. “Shall we go to dinner?”

  “Indeed,” murmured Blair. “Time to face the enemy.”

  That fit a little too well with Gareth’s own feeling, so he said nothing. They went to the drawing room, where much of the family had already gathered. His sisters had clustered around Miss Grey, chattering with various degrees of animation. Serena and Alexandra, he was pleased to see, were achieving some level of decorum, but Bridget, as feared, was louder and more boisterous than ever. For her part, Miss Grey seemed a little cowed by them. Her smile was uncertain, and she wasn’t saying much, although in fairness, it must have been rather intimidating to have three girls discussing every detail of her dress and pelting her with queries about London.

  His mother was conversing with Sir William and Lady Grey, who looked up with twin expressions of rapture at his entrance. Gareth joined them as Blair headed for the younger ladies. He had a way with Bridget, and Gareth hoped Blair could calm his sister down so she wouldn’t frighten poor Miss Grey to death.

  “Good evening, Your Grace, good evening!” Sir William almost preened in his satisfaction. “Delightful house.”

  “Oh yes,” gushed his wife. “I’ve never seen one finer!”

  “How very good of you say so.” He inclined his head, keeping one eye on the door. A quick survey of the room had revealed the absence of Mrs. Barrows.

  “If you’ll pardon me, I shall have a word with the butler about dinner.” His mother lowered her voice as she passed him. “Sophronia has deigned to join us this evening.”

  “Has she?” Gareth shot her a look. “How generous of her.”

  “Don’t start,” she murmured, edging past him. “I tried to dissuade her.”

  Everyone knew that was hopeless. Nothing dissuaded Sophronia once she set her mind on something. Still, it gave him something to think about as Lady Grey’s effusions of delight over Kingstag Castle continued. Everything was perfection, in her opinion, and she seemed determined to list each point. It grew to be a bit much, to tell the truth. Gareth appreciated his home and was pleased to hear it admired, but she went on and on as though praising a gift he had given her. As soon as he could, he excused himself and went to Miss Grey, who appeared more at ease now. Blair had channeled the discussion into the diversions planned for the next fortnight.

  “Good evening, Miss Grey.” He bowed, and she curtseyed. Very proper. Very reserved. “How have you found Kingstag Castle thus far?”

  She smiled. “It is lovely, sir. I look forward to seeing the grounds. Your sisters have described them so well.”

  “We’re going to take her around to see everything!” put in Bridget, beaming. “The lake, the grotto, everything! Only, she doesn’t ride terribly well, so James will have to drive us in the barouche.”

  “I never promised,” Blair said with a smile.

  “But near enough! I shall be on my best behavior. Please?” she begged.

  “Perhaps Wessex will want to show Miss Grey the grounds himself,” replied Blair with a glance at Gareth.

  “If she wishes,” he said. “We shall ride out to see as much as you care to see, Miss Grey.”

  She lowered her eyes and curtseyed again. “That is very kind of you, sir.”

  Blair drew the younger girls aside, saying he had an idea for an entertainment later, and they retreated to a corner of the room, although the giggles and w
hispers were audible to all. Gareth looked at his bride-to-be, and she looked at him. He suddenly realized he had no idea what to say to her, and from the expression on her face, she probably felt the same.

  “Your sisters are charming,” said Miss Grey.

  “They are indeed—and they have been positively wild to make your acquaintance.” He watched Alexandra whisper something in Serena’s ear, and a slight smile curved his lips at the delight in Bridget’s face over whatever they were plotting. His sisters were exhausting, but he did love them. “I hope they haven’t been impertinent.”

  “Not at all.” Miss Grey paused. “Sisters are important. I shall be glad to have some more.”

  “I shall be glad to share them.” Gareth repressed the urge to glance at the door yet again at the mention of her sister. He must not allow himself to think what was teasing the edges of his mind. If their conversations were always rather dull, it must be his fault and not hers. When they were better acquainted, they would know what to talk about and not end up in these awkward silences.

  “Good evening,” said a bright voice behind him. He turned, tamping down the quick spurt of anticipation. This time he was prepared. This time she wouldn’t catch him off guard, the earth would remain firmly and motionlessly lodged beneath his feet, and he wouldn’t feel as though he’d been hit over the head by a falling tree branch.

  Instead he felt as though the breath had been sucked right out of his lungs. Mrs. Barrows wore a gauzy white dress that swirled and clung to her body with every step. A long, narrow shawl of vivid blue looped around her bare arms. Ropes of delicate gold chain looped around her bodice, jingling with little gold coins. Her sable hair was twisted up on her head, more gold chain running through it, and on her feet—her bare feet—were dainty leather sandals. She looked like a Roman goddess, he thought numbly: Venus, the goddess of desire.

  “Oh, Cleo, how lovely you look,” said Miss Grey warmly.