At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  “As do I. The grounds may actually be perfect, though,” she went on, shading her eyes with one hand to survey the lake, sparkling in the distance. Willow fronds waved above their heads, dappling the path with sunlight, and the scent of honeysuckle sweetened the air. “I don’t know how anyone even notices the house in these surroundings.”

  “My mother deserves much of the credit. She created the landscape as much as the gardens.” He glanced at her, and Cleo felt her face warm. Not just a garden of love, but a whole landscape. “In fact, I seem to recall a nuncheon for the ladies in the garden today.”

  She smiled uneasily at the veiled question. Nuncheon in the garden would include her mother. For the first few days, it had been enough for Millicent to bask in her role as mother of the bride, which was trying but not unexpected. Lately, though, Millicent had become almost unbearable in her delight, and when she wasn’t praising Kingstag in some way, she was fretting at Cleo about being proper and respectable. In the decade since she’d left home Cleo had got used to her freedom, and her patience for her mother’s anxious, inane chatter was wearing thin. And if her mother knew that the Duke of Wessex was carrying the drapery shop correspondence from Mr. Mabry at this moment, she’d probably faint dead away. “I have some letters to write and thought I might get a bit of exercise as well. I miss the outdoors.”

  The duke nodded. “Your shop, I suppose, keeps you indoors a great deal.”

  Cleo jerked, glancing at him in alarm. She wasn’t to talk about her shop at all, not to anyone, but especially not to him. But he was watching her with those dark, dark eyes, and she felt compelled to answer.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “It does.”

  “Mr. Blair tells me it’s quite a prosperous business,” he went on. Cleo couldn’t resist a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting her mother to be lurking nearby, but they were quite alone. “Quite an achievement.”

  “Yes, for a woman,” she said, too late hearing the edge in her voice. She forced a smile as he looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “My apologies,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t have spoken so.”

  “No,” he corrected her. “You should speak as you feel.”

  Cleo fastened her eyes on the path in front of them and they walked in silence for a few minutes. “I was wrong,” she said when her voice was even and calm again. “I shouldn’t have spoiled our walk.”

  “I don’t think it’s been spoiled at all.” He was remarkably unruffled. “It’s a draper’s shop, I believe?”

  “Yes,” she said politely. There seemed no reason to lie about it.

  “Is it a large one? I have little experience of draper’s shops.”

  Cleo was torn. On one hand, he sounded genuinely interested, and she was proud enough of her business to want to talk about it. On the other hand, her parents would have an apoplexy if they discovered it. “Moderately,” she said, erring on the side of modesty.

  “And yet you manage it on your own?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  He tipped his head in contemplation. “I confess I have no idea what’s required to run a draper’s shop. I imagine it’s a great deal of effort, though. When my sisters descend upon the shop in Dorchester they are gone for hours, and one can only pity the poor proprietor, worn out from being sent back and forth for ribbons and lace and bolts of every sort of fabric sold in England.” He grimaced as Cleo almost choked on her laughter.

  “It’s never that dreadful,” she protested. “Many aspects are quite enjoyable. Every year I travel to London to visit the warehouses and order the latest fabrics before anyone else has seen them. Nothing is more satisfying than spotting a beautiful piece of silk and knowing exactly which customer it will suit. My clerks do most of the fetching in the shop, but I quite like helping ladies choose the right colors and trimmings. A fine gown is a significant expense and ought to please the wearer for years to come. Most ladies are very grateful to have another woman’s approval before making the purchase. Men should understand; I know perfectly well most of the gentlemen here have spent a great deal of time in the stables admiring a carriage.” He gave her a sideways glance, and she grinned. “That, and drinking the many bottles of port I saw a footman carrying to the stables.”

  Wessex coughed. “And a new gown is like a carriage?”

  “To most ladies, a new gown is far, far more important than any carriage,” she confirmed.

  The duke chuckled. “You have illuminated one of the great mysteries of life. I begin to see why Alexandra was reduced to tears when Bridget mocked her bonnet.”

  “Well, mocking is never kind. She might have suggested a different ribbon, or less trimming.”

  “Bridget’s way is rarely diplomatic,” he said in resignation.

  Cleo, who rather liked the impetuous girl, waved one hand. “She has time to learn. I was very like her when I was younger, and we all endure difficult ages only to come out the better for them.”

  “That is very encouraging,” he said. “Bridget is ... a challenge.”

  “Lady Alexandra and Lady Serena are very poised young ladies. I’m sure Lady Bridget will grow into it.” She paused, remembering the disputes and heartfelt conversations with her own sister when they were girls. Without Helen, she didn’t know what she would have done. “They are fortunate to have each other. They seem quite close, your sisters.”

  “Devilishly.” He stopped and turned. “In fact ... Serena?” he called.

  First one girl, then another, and so on until no fewer than five young ladies emerged from behind a nearby hedge, looking guilty. “Yes, Wessex?” asked the eldest, a girl with auburn hair and the same intense dark eyes as the duke.

  “You’re far from the house,” he remarked.

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” blurted out Bridget Cavendish. “It’s that horrid pest Henry—”

  “Shh!” hissed Charlotte Ascot—sister to the horrid pest, if Cleo remembered correctly. “I swear he can hear his name from a mile away.”

  “We’re just out for a walk,” said Serena with a bright smile. “As are you, I see.” She curtseyed to Cleo. “I hope you are enjoying your visit to Kingstag, Mrs. Barrows.”

  “Very much so,” she replied warmly. “I simply had to see more of it and walked out in search of adventure.”

  “Capital!” declared Bridget with a beaming smile. “Would you like to see the grotto? James was supposed to drive us on a tour but he’s disappeared.”

  “All the gentlemen have disappeared,” muttered Kate Lacy with a very fetching pout. “They only turn up when there’s a cricket match.”

  “Or a game of battledore,” put in Charlotte. “Which is even less entertaining to watch, even if that handsome Mr. Newnham is playing.”

  “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, n
othing I say will save you. It would be a terribly 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 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

  Gareth joined Blair 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.

&nbs
p; “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.