by Darcy Burke
“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 to 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 whispers 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.
“Thank you, Helen. The minute the chain came into the shop, I thought to wear it.” Mrs. Barrows beamed at her sister as she joined them. “Although I don’t think I can compare to you!”
Gareth turned his head to look at his fiancé. He hadn’t even noticed what she was wearing. A pale pink dress, very fashionable and very ordinary. His feet had never left the ground once while looking at her.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Mrs. Barrows dipped a curtsey. The little coins tinkled softly as she moved.
“Good evening.” His tongue had trouble forming the words.
“Mrs. Barrows.” Blair appeared at her elbow with a pleased smile. “Good evening. What an original gown.”
She smiled. “Very unoriginal, you mean! I fell in love with an illustration in one of my father’s books and longed to recreate it for myself. This design must be two thousand years old.”
“But surely even better now,” he replied. Blair was looking at her with far too much appreciation, thought Gareth testily. “Don’t you agree, Wessex?”
“Er— Yes,” he said. At least the question gave him an excuse for staring at her.
She looked directly at him then, her dark eyes sparkling. A little smile curved her mouth into a perfectly kissable shape. Gareth felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. He might need another brandy. “Thank you, Your Grace. You flatter me.”
The door opened, and Gareth’s mother returned, thank God—although with Sophronia and Henrietta Black in her wake. Sophronia looked as eccentric as ever tonight, in a gown thirty years out of date and her henna-colored hair tied up in a bewildering assortment of braids and knots, but her gaze was as keen and ruthless as ever. Unconsciously Gareth braced himself, sensing that she had decided to join them in order to stir up trouble in some way. “Isn’t it time to eat?” she asked loudly, confirming his suspicions. Her companion, Henrietta, tried to murmur something in her ear, but Sophronia waved her away. “I’m half-starved after the long walk down here.”
“Nearly,” said the duchess calmly, guiding her across the room. “Come meet our guests. Here are Sir William and Lady Grey. Wessex is to marry their daughter. Sir William, Lady Grey, may I present you to Lady Sophronia Cavendish?”
“A great honor, madam.” Sir William bowed.
“Oh yes, indeed!” trilled his wife, fluttering her hands as though she couldn’t contain herself. “A singular pleasure, my lady!”
Sophronia gave the woman a har
d stare, then turned away. The duchess quickly intervened. “You must meet the bride!” She gave Gareth a look as Sophronia tottered toward him, and he made the introductions.
Sophronia baldly looked Miss Grey up and down, then did the same to Mrs. Barrows. “Are you the bride?”
Mrs. Barrows blinked. “No, my sister has that happy honor.”
The older woman grunted. “She doesn’t look honored.”
“Sophronia,” murmured the duchess in a warning way.
“Oh, but she is!” put in Lady Grey. “Who would not be honored to become the Duchess of Wessex, mistress of Kingstag Castle? I assure you, madam, my daughter feels her honor very, very well!”
“She doesn’t show it.” The elderly lady’s keen eye landed on Mrs. Barrows again. “Already married, are you?”
“No, my lady. I’m a widow.” Mrs. Barrows seemed amused by Sophronia. She shot her sister a glance full of impudent amusement. Her mouth twitched as if to keep from laughing. Gareth wondered what her laugh sounded like. What her lips felt like. What she wore underneath that slip of a gown.
God help him.
“You don’t dress like one,” remarked Sophronia. Once again she was coming perilously close to rudeness, and as usual, no one seemed to know quite how to deflect her. She peered closer at Mrs. Barrows’s gown. “Where did you get that chain? It’s quite unusual.”
“Oh my heavens!” burst out Lady Grey. Everyone looked at her and her face seemed to fill with panic for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I have just remembered something I must tell my daughter.”
“Yes, Mama,” murmured Miss Grey, stepping forward.
“No, Helen dear.” Her mother’s voice was high and strained. “Your sister.”
Miss Grey’s eyes flickered to Mrs. Barrows’s. Something passed between them, but Gareth wasn’t sure what. Suddenly he understood what Blair had meant about a tension in the Grey family. Even Mrs. Barrows’s supple mouth looked flat. “We’re about to go in to dinner, Mama,” she said, her voice quiet and reserved. There was none of the warmth and humor she had shown before.
Lady Grey’s face pinched. “It will only take a moment, Cleo. Come here.”
“Well, Alice, is it time to eat or isn’t it? I never had the patience to stand around waiting for my dinner.” Sophronia turned to the duchess, who began to look a little strained as well.
“Yes, dinner is ready.” The duchess nodded at one of the footmen, who swept open the doors.
“Thank goodness,” declared Bridget, bounding across the room. Alexandra and Serena followed more sedately. “I’m so hungry!”
“That’s my girl,” said Sophronia with approval as the duchess closed her eyes in despair. “Who’s going to escort me? I see you haven’t got nearly enough gentlemen tonight, Wessex.”
“The guests will begin arriving tomorrow,” he replied. “Blair will give you his arm tonight.” He nodded at his cousin.
Sophronia grunted. “I suppose he’ll do.” She put out her hand, and Blair obediently gave her his arm.
The duchess smiled at the rest of them. “Since we are just family tonight, I thought we could all go in together. I hope you will forgive the informality.”
There was a murmur of assent. Gareth turned to Lady Grey, still hovering behind him. What the devil had she wanted to tell Mrs. Barrows so urgently? And why had it banished the light from the lady’s eyes? Even now, she was staring fixedly at the carpet, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He felt again the oddest sensation of falling. He wanted to shake her mother—her own mother—for dampening her spirits. He must be going mad. “May I escort you, madam?”
Lady Grey hesitated, but after exchanging a glance with her husband, she took Gareth’s arm. “Why yes, how kind, Your Grace! I have heard such reports of your chef at Kingstag, I expect dinner shall be utterly incomparable ...” She went on, but he barely heard her. His sisters fell in step with Miss Grey behind them, and they followed his mother into the dining room.
But when he reached the dining room and seated Lady Grey, he discovered that Mrs. Barrows and Sir William had not followed them.
Chapter 4
“Stay a moment,” growled Sir William at his older daughter as the others left the room. Cleo waited, burning with humiliation. The momentary relief she’d felt when the Duke of Wessex intercepted her mother had quickly been replaced by dread when her father gave her a black look behind the duke’s back. For a moment there, she’d been blessing the duke with all her might, but of course the coming confrontation couldn’t be avoided.
Her father waited until everyone else had left, then stared fiercely at the footman until the servant closed the door, leaving them in complete privacy. Even then, he spoke in a harsh whisper. “You think very highly of yourself, don’t you? When will you cease trying to humiliate us at every turn by bringing up your wretched little trade?”
“It is not wretched,” she said quietly.
He snorted. “It is indeed! My own daughter, laboring in a shop like some baseborn chit. It is intolerable, I tell you, intolerable. The very least you could do is remember your place here and kindly keep your idle thoughts and opinions to yourself.”
“What is my place?” she asked before she could stop herself. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Perhaps he had some trace of affection left for her.
“A tradesman’s widow,” he said with a snort. “Utterly beneath your ancestors! Your sister will be a duchess, and you stand in her drawing room and loudly proclaim yourself little better than a common servant!” Cleo’s mouth opened in shock, and he went on. “Sometimes I wonder precisely who you think you are, miss!”
“You named me for a queen,” she said. “Who do you think I am?”
He harrumphed. “What a laughable mistake. Cleopatra was born to royalty and she knew her place. Don’t think so highly of yourself, miss.”
“But she led her country,” Cleo reminded him. “I daresay someone thought that wasn’t her place.”
Her father glowered at her. “She did not go against her parents’ wishes and lower herself to go into trade.”
“She lowered herself to marrying her brother,” Cleo murmured. “Although I suppose that was at her parents’ wish.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled, then shot her another sharp glance. “You’ve done as you wished, and I have not disowned you. But don’t think I’m proud of your actions. You’re only welcome here because your sister wished it. It is her wedding—she, at least, will take her proper place in society, while you have done precious little for our family.”
Cleo shifted her weight back and forth, setting her skirt to swirling about her ankles. The tiny coins clinked softly. “I paid for Helen’s wardrobe.”
“Shh!” hissed her father, glancing around anxiously, as though the duke might hear her words all the way in the dining room. “Don’t tell everyone!” He gave a snort. “Bad enough that my daughter has to operate a shop like a common merchant. You’d tell the world I must accept your charity, too.”
“It’s not charity,” she protested. “I wanted to help! Helen is my sister.”
“Then mind your tongue,” he snapped. “Do you want to embarrass her in front of her future husband? Do you want him to think us a pack of penniless, hysterical fools?”
Cleo watched the coins settle into silence again. “No, Papa. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” With that, he brushed past her, only waiting at the door to offer his arm. As angry as he was with everything she did, he would never break protocol and leave her to walk into the dining room alone. We must keep up appearances, after all, Cleo thought, pasting a wooden smile on her face, feeling oddly detached from her father even as her hand rested on his arm.
She knew her parents hadn’t understood when she and Matthew eloped; she hadn’t expected them to. The years of her marriage had been rather cool ones between her and her parents, but still civil. Cleo knew why; her mother had once outright admitted that if she had to be th
e wife of a shopkeeper, at least she was the wife of a very prosperous shopkeeper. At the time, she’d wondered who her parents thought she would marry. The Greys had had no money for as long as she could remember, and no connections of consequence. Suitors had been rare in their house.
But whatever their initial hopes for her, it was clear that all the burden of making a great match had descended upon Helen. Cleo felt sorry for that. She had been so happy with Matthew and wished the same for her sister, whether it was with a duke or a lowly tailor. She got some glimpse of what her sister must have endured after Matthew died. Her father had tried to insist that she sell her shop and return home. Unspoken was the presumption that she would make a better match the second time, now that she was a widow of some modest fortune. After that conversation, Cleo had made only the briefest visits home. She had no desire to settle into a ladylike uselessness in her widowhood. Working in the shop reminded her of Matthew, and Cleo liked being responsible for herself. She could support herself, it turned out, so why shouldn’t she? Without the shop, she would have precious little of her own: no children, no husband, no income ... nothing to keep her mind occupied. What else was she to do with herself?
The unfairness of her father’s feelings made her want to scream. Never mind that her shop, which he hated, supplied her money, which he somehow managed to accept. At times she had been almost determined to stop offering it, since the source of the income was so hateful to both her parents. Perhaps they would be more appreciative if they felt the lack of her “common merchant” funds. But cutting them off would mean cutting off Helen as well. Helen was the dearest person in the world to her; Helen had wished her joy when she married Matthew. And now she had made a splendid match to the illustrious Duke of Wessex—even if he did seem awfully reticent and reserved—and Cleo would never regret helping her sister find happiness.
That was the thought she must keep in the forefront of her mind for the next few weeks. Stirring up an argument with either one of her parents would only cause Helen anxiety, and she had absolutely no wish to embarrass her sister in front of the Cavendish family.