At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  She shouldn’t have. She’d made a mistake. It sounded too familiar, too tender when he said it. Cleo glanced back at her sister in despair. Helen hadn’t looked at Wessex any more than Wessex had looked at Helen. Not only had Cleo failed to discover the duke’s feelings for her sister, she had only succeeded in making her own feelings worse.

  If she didn’t catch herself soon, she would find herself utterly in love with him.

  o0o

  As soon as possible, Gareth excused himself and went in search of oblivion. He found it in the stables. His cousin had the right idea, avoiding all the females. Some of the men looked a trifle guilty—Lord Warnford hastily hid a pair of dice behind his back—but Gareth just raised his hand in greeting and retired to a corner to contemplate the trouble he was in, a bottle in hand.

  He brooded over his brandy while a tedious conversation about a horse race occupied the other men. The only person who appeared less interested in the race was the Earl of Bruton, who arrived shortly after he did and looked as grim as Gareth felt. He caught his old friend’s eye and invited him to have a drink, not surprised to see Bruton here. With that slashing scar down his face, the earl had long avoided the ladies.

  “Thank God for Willoughby,” cried one decidedly drunk fellow all of a sudden. “He’s saved us all with this refuge from the ladies.”

  “Hear, hear!” cheered the rest of the company.

  “No offense intended, Wessex,” added the man, still swinging his tankard of ale in one hand. “Felicitations on your marriage.”

  God help him; even drinking in the stables couldn’t save him from that topic. He nodded in acknowledgement and poured another gulp of brandy down his throat, wondering if he could drink enough to purge the sound of Cleopatra Barrows’s laughter from his mind. He could still feel the touch of her hand on his arm.

  He left the stables, handing his bottle to Lord Everett as he went. If they raised a toast to his bride, he might be ill. There was one inescapable thought circling his brain, and he didn’t know how to address it.

  He was marrying the wrong woman.

  Chapter Eight

  Cleo went downstairs early two mornings before the wedding, which was finally almost at hand. After their match of bowls, she had taken care only to cross the Duke of Wessex’s path in company. Even at the ball last night, she had determinedly kept her distance. It hadn’t kept her from noticing how very attractive he was, or how kind and good-humored he was with his sisters, or even how gallant he was to Sophronia. How could one dislike a man who was so wonderful? Cleo had clung to her sister’s side and tried to interest herself in the wedding plans, but that had difficulties of its own. She thought she might scream if she didn’t escape her mother’s hawk-like watch for a few hours. As the wedding drew nearer, so apparently did her fear that Cleo would say or do something unacceptable.

  Since Cleo knew very well that she was doing something unpardonable, it was hard to argue with her mother. She had diligently avoided talking about her shop except when directly asked, but her real sin was far worse, even though her mother could have no idea. She had tried everything to keep her wicked thoughts in check, to no avail, and now she had only one option left: avoidance. If she spent her time wandering alone over the estate and secluded herself in her room the rest of the time, she could endure until the wedding was over. Then it would be perfectly acceptable to make her excuses and return home to her little shop, where she couldn’t ruin anyone’s life but her own.

  She paused before a mirror in the hall to tie her bonnet ribbons. The castle was still almost silent, populated only by the servants moving quietly about. Everyone would probably sleep late after the ball the previous night. In spite of everything, she would be sorry to leave Kingstag. It really was a wonderful place.

  “Good morning,” said a voice behind her.

  Cleo jumped. The one voice she’d been trying to avoid but somehow still longed to hear. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she managed to say, knotting her ribbons before facing him. “I was just setting out to indulge myself with a long walk.”

  “As was I.” He wore a long coat and carried a rather battered hat. Cleo’s pulse leaped as he pushed one bare hand through his thick dark hair. “I rarely have the time to step out later in the day.”

  “Oh! Please don’t let me disturb you,” she began, but he raised one hand.

  “On the contrary. I didn’t expect to meet anyone this morning, but it would be a pleasure to have company.”

  She should say no. She drew an unsteady breath. “I hate to oblige you ...”

  “Please,” he said, and Cleo closed her mouth. Without another word she put her hand on the arm her offered, and together they walked out the door.

  A blanket of mist covered the ground, lending an unearthly air to the scene. Cleo drew in a delighted breath, loving the cool, earthy scent of the country. They strolled along the gravel, heading toward the lake, which lay still and quiet beyond the fog. “How beautiful,” she sighed. “I rarely see such a sight in town.”

  “Are you always an early riser?”

  She blushed. She had to be awake early to open the shop. “Yes. I love the morning light.”

  “My sisters and mother prefer not to rise until the sun is high in the sky.”

  “I’m sure they have good reason, particularly today,” she said lightly. “It would be very hard to rise early when there are guests and entertainments every evening.”

  He smiled. “They are creatures of candlelight, even when there are no guests.”

  “As long as they are all the same, I see no cause for worry. If Bridget were to favor the morning while the others did not ...” She shook her head and sighed as the duke chuckled. “It’s lovely to see sisters so close.”

  “Barely three years separate them. My father was away for much of my childhood as a diplomat.” Wessex slanted her a look. “My mother was quite joyous at his return.”

  Cleo sighed, but with a smile. “How lovely to find a married couple in love.”

  “And how sad when they are parted too soon,” he murmured.

  She said nothing. It was true. The last time she had walked arm-in-arm with a man had been two years ago, before Matthew was cut down by an inflammation in his lungs. Not since then had she ever once felt the same easy companionship she seemed to have fallen into overnight with the Duke of Wessex. He was nothing like Matthew and yet ... in some ways he reminded her of her husband. He had a wry way of putting things. He was even-tempered with everyone, from his ebullient sister Bridget to Cleo’s own flighty mother; even querulous Lady Sophronia never ruffled him. And he had a way of looking at her that made her feel every lonely minute of her widowhood.

  “I understand you know too well how sad that is,” he said quietly. “Forgive me for mentioning—”

  “No!” She squeezed his arm lightly. “I have nothing but happy memories of my husband.”

  “Does that make it better or worse?” He cleared his throat. “To have loved and lost, I mean. My mother was destroyed when my father died. I was only a boy, but I became utterly convinced she would have been far happier if she hadn’t loved him.”

  “I suspect she would disagree,” Cleo murmured. “Love is worth the risk.”

  “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am beginning to agree with that.”

  “I am as sure of that as I am sure the sun will rise in the east. I took a great risk and suffered a great loss, but I would do it all again. Real love is very much worth it.”

  “A great risk,” he echoed, sounding pensive. “What do you mean?”

  “I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on something in the distance. She was under orders not to tell him and yet the words spilled out. “Helen knows, after all, so you would be sure to hear of it eventually. I eloped when I was seventeen. My parents have never forgiven me.”

  He stopped, and she had to stop, too. Cleo realized how far she had to tilt her head back to meet his eye
s. “As bad as that?”

  The concern in his voice made her flush. He wasn’t haughty and arrogant, looking down on her for keeping a shop—unlike her parents. The temptation was too much. “Oh, yes,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m only here on sufferance.”

  “Oh?” His voice was soft and warm, comforting and seductive.

  “Yes,” she barreled on. “He wasn’t enormously wealthy, titled, or extremely famous; he was a merchant. And my parents have never recovered from the shame.”

  “I see.” He leaned forward a little. “Why did you do it, then?”

  She smiled wistfully. “Because I loved him. He made me laugh.”

  The duke seemed mesmerized for a moment. His face was so still and yet rapt.

  Cleo supposed she had just displayed her common nature, impulsive and reckless, and gave a little shrug. “There is so much of life that must conform to duty or polite behavior, but I don’t know how people endure it all if they aren’t happy, or at least content. My parents were horrified that I would run off like a hoyden with no care for how it reflected on my family. I suppose they only wanted better for me, but I ... I was happy. For that, I could endure any discomforts life brought.”

  “Yes,” he said, as though very struck by her words. “How very wise you are.”

  “Oh! Not really.” She blushed at the look he gave her, direct and probing. “Headstrong. Willful.” Those had been two of the kinder words her father used.

  “What is headstrong and willful in a woman is often called decisive and bold in a man.” He took a deep breath. “I wish we had had this conversation several months ago. You have shown me a multitude of errors on my part.”

  They had passed the bowling green by now, the awnings still standing like lonely sentinels over the bare rinks. Cleo felt again the way her heart had turned over when Wessex grinned at her over the bowls, the breeze ruffling his hair. Why did it have to be her sister’s fiancé who made her heart leap? “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That wasn’t my desire.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “On the contrary. I’ve never shied away from my mistakes. I made a great many of them, inheriting a dukedom at so young an age. Humiliation is a powerful teacher. But I fear it also taught me some lessons too well, lessons I’ve only just realized were all wrong.”

  She fixed her gaze upon the ground, afraid of what he would say next and yet desperate to know. “How so?”

  “My parents were devoted to each other. My father’s death ... it seemed to shatter my mother. To my horrified young eyes, all that love seemed to have turned into soul-rending anguish. I was sure I wanted no part of that in my own marriage, and I never met anyone who changed my mind—until you.”

  “Love in marriage is vital,” she whispered. Her heart thudded dangerously.

  “I am more and more persuaded of that.” He stopped walking. “You must understand ... I had the best of intentions when I courted your sister. I don’t love her, but I fully expected to be an honorable, faithful husband to her—”

  “Stop.” Cleo put her hand over his mouth to stop him. Tears prickled in her eyes. “Don’t say anything else. You can love her—you will. Helen is the most wonderful girl, it’s impossible not to love her—”

  Gently, tenderly, he covered her hand with his, moving her palm to his cheek. His eyes closed for a moment and he inhaled a long slow breath as he leaned into her touch. “But not in the right way.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, his face stark with yearning.

  Cleo wavered on her feet at the longing that stabbed through her. If he had been anyone else in the world, she would be in his arms right now. God help her, she still wanted to be. But Helen—Helen, her beloved sister—even if Helen didn’t love him and he didn’t love her, Cleo couldn’t betray her sister that way.

  “You have to try,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “I have.” He sounded helpless.

  She pulled away from him, recoiling a step even though he made no move to stop her. “Keep trying. You’ve not spent enough time with her—it’s just a bit of madness—we’ve only just met—”

  “I don’t think a lifetime will be enough to change my feelings so dramatically.”

  “Nor mine.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth as if to recall them, but it was too late; he had heard.

  If Gareth hadn’t understood his own feelings before then, there was no doubting them now. He had thought—suspected—that Cleo was as attracted as he was, but he hadn’t known if she felt more. But as her words lingered in the air, confirming what he yearned for, it seemed as though the earth finally went still beneath his feet again. After days of being off balance, caught between disbelief and alarm that he was falling in love when it was almost too late, he found he finally knew what he wanted.

  He had tried to love Helen, he really had. After the bowling match, he’d kept his distance from Cleo and paid more attention to his betrothed. It hadn’t helped—if anything, it had only convinced him he’d made a terrible error. Helen was as lovely and sweet-tempered as he had originally thought, but she was also far quieter. She was reserved and polite with the guests, and more than once he saw her glance longingly out the window, as if she couldn’t wait to escape the room. For the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d thought she would make a good duchess; of course one could learn it and grow into it, and his mother was ready and able to teach her, but he suspected it would take years for Helen to feel at ease as the Duchess of Wessex and mistress of Kingstag Castle.

  But when he looked at Cleo, more and more he saw someone who would be a splendid duchess from the beginning. She knew all the guests within days. His mother remarked on her effortless conversation. His sisters, who had been so eager to meet Helen, had quickly switched their adoration to Cleo, with her bold and unusual clothes and friendly manner. Even Sophronia liked her, and Sophronia was the harshest critic Gareth had ever met. What’s more, she was used to running a large business, overseeing more than a dozen men, and managing her own finances—much the same skills that would be required to run Kingstag. He doubted anything would daunt her, including him in his worst temper.

  And then there was the way she made him feel. When she smiled at him, Gareth would swear he could still feel the electric tingle in the air, as if lightning had struck him anew. When she laughed, he wanted to kiss her. When she took his arm, he wanted to carry her off into the shrubbery. And when she put her fingers on his lips, he wanted to fall to his knees and make love to her on the spot.

  But deciding what he wanted was only part of the difficulty. He knew what he would have to do, somehow. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he didn’t quite know how to go about it, but this was a risk that was definitely worth the reward.

  “Cleo.” He took a step toward her. She turned her face away, biting her lip, but otherwise she didn’t move. He took another step and reached for her hand. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

  “It does to me.” He edged a step closer. She smelled of roses, soft and beautiful. “I didn’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight. I am torn in two, caught between what I want and what I’ve promised. Tell me what you want, darling, and I will move heaven and earth to do it.”

  “I want my sister to be happy.”

  “Only your sister?”

  A shudder went through her. “No,” she whispered despondently. “But how can this end well for everyone?”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “I promise it will.”

  “How can you promise that?” She shook her head. She pulled her hand loose and finally turned to face him. There was no sparkle in her dark eyes now, no teasing curve to her lips. It was all he could do to keep from touching her. He wanted to hold her close and swear that everything would fall in place. Her unhappiness gutted him. “My parents—my sister—what will they think if you cry off? How could I cause such humiliation for my
own wicked desires? Do you know what people will say about me, if you desert Helen for me? I can’t, Your Grace.”

  “And what will your sister think of me if I marry her strictly out of duty?”

  For a long moment she said nothing. “I hope you won’t—I hope you’ll be happy with her, and she with you. But I won’t interfere in my sister’s marriage.” She turned and hurried away, her footsteps muffled in the fog.

  Gareth watched until she disappeared around the trees before cursing under his breath. He had to think; he had to find a solution to please everyone. He had learned to be a duke at age sixteen, responsible for solving his problems and everyone else’s. This was no different ... merely his entire future happiness was at stake.

  He was startled out of his thoughts by Blair, who came trudging across the lawn with a pistol case in hand. His cousin stopped short when he saw Gareth. “Wessex.”

  “Blair.” Gareth stared at the case. “You look like a man on his way to a duel.”

  “The duel was at dawn.” Blair looked troubled. “Bruton and Newnham.”

  “They’re cousins,” said Gareth in shock. “And the best of friends—or so I thought. What did they duel over?”

  “Rosanne Lacy. Newnham was courting her, but judging from what I just witnessed, Bruton will be marrying her.”

  “What you just witnessed,” he repeated.

  “Miss Lacy flying across the field, barely dressed and sobbing as if her heart would break.” Blair’s face twisted. “She flung herself in Bruton’s arms and I could see it in Newnham’s face. He loved her and yet knew he’d lost her. It takes a strong man to watch the woman you love marry another man.”

  He heard again Cleo’s anguished voice, asking what her sister would think if he jilted Helen for her. Cleo loved him, but she couldn’t betray her sister.

  On the other hand, the notoriously aloof Earl of Bruton had somehow fallen in love with the girl his cousin was courting, and he’d found a way to marry her. Gareth ignored the matter of the duel and focused on the result, which was that Bruton was marrying the right woman for him.