by Darcy Burke
Helen said nothing.
“Of course he did!” said Millicent indignantly. “Last Season! Several times! And twice this year!”
This was all news to Cleo. When Helen had said she didn’t know the Duke of Wessex well, Cleo had thought it was due to a short but typical courtship, not one conducted by proxy. “And he sent his cousin to propose?”
“He did—That is—Not everyone must run wild and elope like you did, miss!” Millicent’s temper got away from her, and Cleo could almost see smoke coming from her mother’s ears. Behind Millicent, her sister was ripping the lace from her sleeve, her head bent.
She relented. Helen had accepted Wessex’s marriage proposal, and it was her choice. She said she was happy to be marrying him. Cleo had no right to make her sister more nervous than she already was.
“No, Mama,” she said soothingly. “They mustn’t. And I am very happy for Helen.”
Millicent opened her mouth, then closed it, as if she’d been ready for more argument. “Of course you are,” she finally said, accepting the truce. “We all are. But Helen! You must rest!” Cleo watched her mother press Helen back down, fluttering around her like an excited bird. This must be a dream come to life for Millicent, marrying her most beautiful daughter to a duke, especially after the disappointment Cleo had been.
She wondered if her mother had ever had the same hopes for her, before she proved herself difficult and rebellious. She wasn’t completely unlike Helen. She was pretty enough, though not beautiful like her sister. She’d been told she was intelligent and clever, but with an appalling tendency to speak too strongly and be too opinionated. Her great failing, though, had been her willingness to marry a man in trade, thereby drawing shame and discredit upon all her family. Millicent, the daughter of a squire and wife of a baronet, had dreamt of having a titled son-in-law her whole life. For Cleo to saddle her with a merchant son-in-law was intolerable.
Of course, her mother’s reaction to her marriage had been kind and warm compared to her father’s response.
From across the room, Helen’s eyes met hers, reluctantly amused and resigned. She’d always been the obedient daughter, and today was no different. Cleo would have wagered a guinea Helen would end up taking both a nap and a bath to please their mother.
She jumped to her feet. “I’m going to take a walk in the garden.” It might not be the nicest thing to leave Helen at their mother’s mercy, but she didn’t think she could take all the smothering maternal affection. She whisked out the door and back to her own room for a shawl, then went in search of the outdoors.
Despite the lightning, the storm was mild. Only a light mist was falling when a servant directed her to the gardens behind the house. She let her skirt drag in the wet grass, lifting her face to the sky. It felt good to be outside after two entire days in the carriage with her parents. If she could have managed it, Cleo would have hired her own carriage just for herself and Helen, leaving the elder Greys to congratulate themselves on Helen’s triumph all the way to Dorset. Their mother, of course, had wanted Helen nearby in case a spasm of delight overcame her again and she needed to smother her daughter in an embrace. Their father hadn’t trusted Cleo not to put “radical and absurd” ideas into Helen’s head. He’d watched her warily the entire trip, and Cleo had nearly bitten her tongue off a dozen times keeping her silence. And his final warning, delivered even as they drove up the sweeping drive of Kingstag, had almost been too much. She’d had to sit in the carriage a minute and compose herself before getting out.
But she would keep her composure, come what may. It was only for a fortnight, and it was for Helen and her wedding. She was aware that her parents had invited her only because Helen wanted her to come. Her father might be ashamed of her and her mother might think her unnatural, but her sister still loved her, and she wouldn’t repay that by causing strife and discord.
She slowed down as she reached the gravel paths of the garden. The Duke of Wessex, no matter that he might be remote and cool when it came to courting a wife, had a lovely garden. She stopped to examine all the plants, marveling at the profusion of greenery and blooms. How on earth did they get them to grow so thickly? Her own house had only a small garden, and nothing seemed to thrive. But these roses! They were everywhere, lush globes of pink and yellow petals that smelled divine. Cleo stuck her face into the flowery bower and sniffed, in paradise. What she wouldn’t give for her garden to look like this ...
And this would be her sister’s home. She touched another fragrant rose, spilling a cascade of raindrops onto her skirt. The Duke of Wessex wasn’t at all what she had expected. From Helen’s description of him, she’d imagined an older man, very elegant and urbane. The man she’d met today was far more masculine. Thick waves of dark hair threatened to tumble over his high forehead, which gave him a somewhat wild look that was at odds with his surprisingly sensual mouth. He was undeniably handsome, but there was an implacable strength in his face as well. Cleo fancied he was a man of strong passions and great control, the sort of man who wouldn’t be denied anything he set his heart on.
Then she shook her head at how ridiculous she was, imputing an entire personality to a man she’d only just met. No doubt he’d turn out to be much as Helen described him, once she got to know him a little better. Dukes were far out of her ordinary acquaintance.
She bent down to sniff a peony, trying to squash the seed of worry that had sprouted when Helen confessed to nerves. Her sister was gentle and kind-hearted, and Cleo wasn’t at all certain Helen would be able to stand up to a man as intimidating as the duke.
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 tre
e.”
“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 3
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 slowl
y. “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.”